


Shielded Heart

by JuniperJones



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Again kind of...because it’s Dean, Alien Biology, Alien Gender/Sexuality, Alien/Human Relationships, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted rape by minor character., Deception, Dominance, Dominant Castiel, Gentle Dom Cas, Kind of..., M/M, Misunderstandings, No real aliens were hurt in the writing of this fic., Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Slow Burn, Submission, Submissive Dean, biological D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 92,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25634083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJones/pseuds/JuniperJones
Summary: Arthos, the Infinite City, is a place of alien wonders and indescribable beauty—and, most importantly for Dean, it’s also halfway across the universe from his abusive ex-fiancé. He came to the city desperate for a fresh start, but he finds himself downtrodden on a world of aloof alien beings with little hope of finding his place—and a good chance of being kidnapped or killed before he can even settle in.At least until he is saved by an irresistible alien with piercing eyes and a seductive smile.Castiel is the living embodiment of temptation, and he makes no effort to disguise his desire for Dean. But when his past threatens to drag Dean into a dangerous underworld, Dean discovers Castiel isn’t who he claims to be. After enduring so much suffering, can Dean bear to take a leap of faith with this mysterious alien? Can he trust Castiel with not only his life, but his heart?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor Gabriel/Meg
Comments: 77
Kudos: 228
Collections: Destiel Harlequin Challenge 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

The L’Astrolabe had already been docked in geosynchronous orbit above Arthos for over ten tiresome hours before Dean finally managed to grab his belongings and disembark via one of the ship’s fully automated supply tenders. Since the entirety of his possessions fitted easily inside a single backpack, the delay was not related to his last minute packing nor even the time he had taken to consider the gruffly-made offer from the Chief Engineer, Rufus - when he picked up the few credits he’d earned during the last eighteen months - that he should stay on-board the vessel at least until Vantixian. It was simply that Interstellar Cruise Ships had strict hierarchies. 

The First Class Passengers, those with private suites located on the observation decks, never disembarked the vessel with the normal passengers, let alone the crew. They always flew down to enter a Port first, sweeping through security with a minimum of disruption, followed by the Second Class Passengers from the slightly less opulent cabins on the lower decks. Then the Third Class passengers would alight, those who travelled in inner cabins without viewports and then, finally, the tenders would ferry the Cattle-class passengers who travelled in dormitory-style accommodation because they could barely scrape together enough money for the passage itself let alone pay for any comforts or privacy or even the privilege of being treated with any particular courtesy. Yet even those poor souls, the ones who dreamed of finding better lives on other worlds, still warranted considerable priority over the crew such as Dean whose only way to travel at all was by working their passage in the sweaty bowels of the engine rooms, laundries and kitchens of the vast interstellar liner. 

He, and others of his ilk, never seen or heard onboard by any of the paying guests, weren’t allowed to visit the ports as ‘tourists’ at all. They couldn’t alight in any port unless they were departing the ship for good. Even then, they were only permitted to depart the vessel after the customs area below had been completely emptied of vacationers. 

The whole voyage had been a far cry from his own previous experience of interstellar travel. Dean’s only prior journey through space had been undertaken in the pampered comfort of a Private Yacht. An experience he hadn’t enjoyed, to be honest, despite the luxurious surroundings. The truth was, Dean had swiftly discovered he didn’t enjoy flying at all. The realization there was nothing more than a thick layer of transparent Plexiglas between him and the universe, that nothing except a bit of manmade plastic stood between the artificial atmosphere of a ship and the explosive vacuum of space, did not make for a pleasant journey.

His one trip on Michael’s yacht, with its wide expansive ‘windows’ revealing panoramic views of the stars, had left him feeling so physically nauseous that he had spent most of his time stuck in their stateroom with the viewports shuttered. In that respect, voyaging for a year and a half as a lowly mechanical deckhand in the bowels of an Interstellar Cruise Liner, with no view from his dorm or the communal areas other than that of the plain noisy bulkheads, had been a considerable relief. It had, in the depths of the comforting rumble of the ship’s sub-light engines, been almost possible to forget that he was travelling through space at all. Whenever he felt panicky, he could close his eyes, take a deep breath and convince himself he was living inside a seafaring vessel rather than an interstellar one.

And there were other compensations to being treated even worse than a fourth class citizen, he decided, even as he rubbed the skin under his right eye unconsciously.

Such as the fact his tender, unlike a passenger one, thankfully had no windows. And also that his first view of Arthos, after landing and climbing out of the supply tender, wasn’t from within a throng of noisy, bustling, over-excited tourists and the majority of the Tsalun Customs Officers and Security Guards had already packed up and left for the day. All that remained on duty were two bored looking individuals by the sole exit that led into the City.

Because sure, all he was seeing so far was a formal, high-security customs hall, rather than the city itself, but even that was so alien in construction that it was pretty damned breathtaking. From the high-arched ceilings reminiscent of a gothic cathedral carved from ice, to a parquet floor literally formed of gemstones that would have been priceless back on Earth and yet were obviously considered nothing more than colored-glass to the Tsalunniqui. 

“Tsaluna is the last place a guy like you should try to make a home on,” Chief Rufus’s dry warning echoed in his head, as he stumbled in wonder towards the grim-faced alien guards at the security desk, his legs long unaccustomed to walking on a floor that wasn’t constantly vibrating. “I know I gave you shit when you first came on board, expected you to be just another dead-weight, useless soft-fingered land rat, but you turned out to be a half-decent mechanic. Stay on-board a couple more hops until we reach Vantixian and you’ll not only end up in a world with a human colony crying out for your skills but I’ll give you a personal recommendation to hand to a couple of businesses there. The Tsalunniqui don’t even use human-type technology outside of the tourist areas. Trust me. It’s the last planet in this whole damn system that you wanna be living on.” 

Dean hadn’t doubted the old engineer’s advice, even though Rufus had no real idea of what ‘a guy like you’ even really meant where Dean was concerned. As a non-designate himself, Rufus hadn’t even been aware of Dean’s designation, let alone his particular unique status. So Dean’s refusal to accept the elder’s advice hadn’t been because he thought Rufus was wrong. But he hadn’t even bothered trying to argue. He’d just taken his credits and left. Because the apparent total unsuitability of Tsaluna for a human colonist was _exactly_ why Dean had chosen it.

Because it would be the last place in the Universe that Michael would ever imagine him choosing to live on. 

98% of the humans who left Earth did so to join communities colonizing virgin worlds without other sentient native species in place. Humans liked to claim that they had learned their lessons from the historical colonization of countries such as North America and Australia. The tragic mistakes of the past would not be repeated, they swore. Humans were actively discouraged from settling on planets with thriving sentient aboriginal populations because humans now proudly honored and respected the rich diversity of the Universe rather than attempting to destroy and subjugate it.

That was complete bullshit, of course.

The sad and honest truth was that by the time the humans of Earth had finally evolved enough to reach out to the stars, they were already well behind the curve. Almost every civilization they had encountered had been demonstrably considerably more advanced than themselves. The Old Races, the handful of species that had first joined together to form the Federal Alliance, had been ancient before the first Earther had even swung down from a tree and walked on two legs.

The reality was, it was a damned good job the _aliens_ had long ago decided not to repeat the mistakes of _their_ past.

So, as a rule, Earthers only migrated to empty planets or ones already claimed by their compatriots. Ones that other species hadn’t yet chosen to colonize. Only a rare handful of humans chose to live on already civilized planets, since they were inevitably regarded as hopelessly unevolved by more mature races. Earth’s shiny new membership of the Federal Alliance meant humans now had the right to visit the planets of other member species. For the last fifty years, they had even had the right to emigrate to them. Having the legal right to do so did not, however, provide any assurance that they would be welcome. 

Tsaluna was even less likely to welcome immigrants than most other planets. It didn’t only have one native sentient species evolved well past that of Humanity. It had two. One of which was regarded as an Old Race and neither of which reputedly had more than the vaguest condescending tolerance for any less-evolved species. Arthos, the Infinite City, was one of the listed Nine Wonders of the Helix Nebula. Tourists of all races visited to coo and awe over its beauty. The Tsalunniqui tolerated those tourists with aloof politeness, seemingly happy to put sufficient effort into the relationship to successfully strip their visitors of Federal Credits without ever crossing the line into offering any suggestion of genuine welcome. 

If Michael ever discovered he’d fled Earth completely – hopefully the last thing he’d imagine given Dean’s terror of flying, but far from a sure thing - and that he had boarded the L’Astrolabe as a mere crew member; if Michael ever came after him at all – sadly all too likely - then out of all the many planets the ship was scheduled to dock at during its five-year journey, surely Tsaluna would be the one place Michael wouldn’t ever consider searching.

Vantixian, unfortunately, would probably be the first.

With that sobering thought, Dean reached the Tsalun security guards; a nervous smile plastered on his face. 

The Tsalun were, he decided, probably the most _alien_ aliens that he had ever seen in the flesh. Sure, they were bipedal, which made them more ‘human’ than races such as the serpentine Anotong or the gaseous Manushophin, and they were roughly human-sized, unlike the diminutive Faelar, but the Tsalun had almost demonic visages. They had a facial appearance so reminiscent of a bizarre melding of human with predatory insect that it was their very _almost_ -human features that made them so terrifyingly alien.

It was that which was unsettling, he decided. The fact that the Tsalun looked like deformed humans that made his eyes want to slide off their features in discomfort.

He imagined they probably felt the same way about his face. That it was like that of a deformed Tsalun. Which was a bizarrely satisfying thought, really. The idea that someone might look at his face and see ugliness - rather than a beauty that apparently cried out to be owned and subjugated - was peculiarly welcome. 

Although a little inconvenient in these particular circumstances.

Certainly, the Tsalun didn’t seem happy to see him at their desk.

Neither alien spoke. Although their mandibles chittered constantly, there was no suggestion the noise they were emitting was any attempt at conversation. Nor did they offer any instructions other than one of them eventually becoming bored enough to gesture impatiently towards a monitor on their counter that was projecting a list of scrolling illegible print in a language definitely not FedStan. The Tsalun’s expression didn’t change but Dean could still almost sense the guard rolling his black eyes impatiently at his hesitation. 

Then they simply waited, with calm, indifferent expressions, as he dropped his backpack to the floor and shuffled on the spot, staring blankly at the electronic display that had finally stopped scrolling nonsense and was now simply impatiently winking at him, telling him to do _something_ , despite the complete lack of any instructions in Federation Standard of what that something was.

Which was a complete, blatant breach of Federal Law.

All planets within the aligned Federation were obligated to offer FedStan translations for all legal processes and documentation; which definitely included the process of Customs clearance. Clearly, however, the Tsalunniqui believed themselves above that basic level of courtesy.

Dean swallowed his irritation and, for lack of any other ideas, pressed his wrist against the screen in the hope it was meant to read his embedded identichip as a way for him to ‘sign’ whatever he had just failed to ‘read’. 

Then he tried not to look guilty. And not just over the stupidity of signing something he hadn’t even read. 

Changing his name from Campbell to Winchester, abandoning his matriarchal identity in favor of his father’s bloodline – damn the bastard to hell - whilst highly scandalous was not an offence. Under Federal Law, inheritance always followed a matriarchal line, since legitimacy was far easier to establish through the mother for almost every member species, so it was highly unusual for an individual to ever abandon their legal inheritance rights by adopting the surname of their father. 

Unusual and scandalous but not illegal. 

Except, of course, if the remapping of a data chip was done outside of official legal channels by someone deliberately attempting to become untraceable.

Although his minor tampering had passed muster so far, had eased him into employment on the admittedly low security L’Astrolabe, it was possible the Tsalunniqui technology would find what Human technology had not. 

He willed himself not to rub the fingers of his left hand over the skin now itching crazily beneath the outer corner of his right eye. Not to touch the unblemished flesh there. Not to draw attention to the nothing that used to be something. The removal of which, whilst not illegal, would be seen by most citizens of the Federation to be the greatest crime of all.

A trickle of sweat formed at the nape of his neck. 

So when the screen flashed red in response to his chip, and a scarlet hued light from the screen enveloped his wrist and caused the skin over his chip to glow radioactively for a moment, Dean’s heart almost exploded out of his chest in panic. 

Neither of the aliens reacted though. They simply continued to stare at him from their solid black eyes, their bat-like wings folded behind them, their mandibles continuing to click a low, cricket-like hum. 

Maybe red was the color of ‘all clear’ on Tsaluna, he decided, when nobody moved to arrest him.

“Um…” he eventually said. “Is that it?” He gestured at the open door behind them, the passageway into Arthos City. “Am I free to exit?”

One of the aliens chittered something to the other. Otherwise, they didn’t react. They just continued to stare at him with blank, black-eyed indifference.

“Jeez,” Dean muttered, beginning to think he should have listened to Rufus. All he could hope was that the Qui were a little more communicative than the Tsalun were, or his decision to disembark on Tsaluna was rapidly looking like the biggest mistake he’d ever made. Which, considering the whole Michael debacle, was saying a lot.

Out of other options, he re-shouldered his backpack and strode with an appearance of casualness towards the exit. He kept his expression calm and assured, despite the sweat now trickling from his neck and dripping down his spine. He expected, any moment, to be halted in his tracks by an explosion of Tsalun guards swooping in his direction, all bat-like wings and claws and teeth.

He was so conscious of his guilt, all of his guilt; of the loud banging of his heart in his chest; of the slow drip of perspiration down his spine, that he found himself outside of the building before he even realized he had made it past security unchallenged.

And his first sight of the real Tsaluna instantly convinced him of two things; that he probably had made a terrible mistake in choosing such an alien planet and, yet, having now seen the beauty of Arthos with his own eyes, he didn’t see how he would ever want to leave such a wondrous place. 

A feeling of wonder which, sadly, lasted less than an hour.

There had been a brief period in Dean’s life when he’d known how to blend seamlessly with people of wealth and importance. Never effortlessly, but seamlessly. He’d always known he was an imposter in their rarified world but, more importantly, they hadn’t _known_ he didn’t belong within their exclusive circles. The Academy had taught him how to behave in polite society, but not how to belong. On Michael’s arm, under Michael’s tutelage, he had learned the art of social camouflage. How to carry himself with confident assurance rather than shame. 

Some of it had been down to the clothes Michael had encouraged him to wear, of course, but a lot more had been simple attitude. The tilt of his head, the set of his shoulders, the ease of his walk. For instance, he knew from experience that, despite their snobby proclamations to the contrary, most people couldn’t genuinely discern the difference between fake designer goods and the real thing. In the early days of his relationship with Michael, when his own pride had still meant more to him than his worry of offending his fiancé by refusing yet another expensive gift - when he still thought Michael saw him as a person rather than a possession - Dean had often worn knock-off outfits. Nobody had ever called him on it. Not one of Michael’s family or friends had ever noticed he wasn’t really the person Michael liked him to pretend to be.

So, in theory, the fact he was wearing threadbare jeans and sporting a well-used backpack shouldn’t necessarily have been enough to set him apart from the human vacationers in Arthos’s tourist district. It should still have been possible to easily convince people that his jeans were a fashion statement and his pack no more than a deliberate accessory. 

But perhaps he had left more than material belongings behind when he’d fled that life. 

Certainly, the way several different Tsalun guards were glaring at him suspiciously from the far edges of the market square suggested his attempt to blend in with the human tourists was seemingly unsuccessful. Whilst the chattering, aimless wandering of the tourists around Arthos was largely ignored by the authorities, it was increasingly obvious that his own presence was garnering some unwelcome attention. He could almost swear the guards were not only watching him with interest whenever he stumbled near them by accident but were actually actively circling him to ensure he couldn’t slip out of their sight. 

“Am I wearing some kind of invisible sign?” he muttered to himself, in frustration. 

He spoke quietly, but not quietly enough apparently since a passing Bentaegan paused and doubled back toward him, a curious but friendly smile on his extremely handsome, blue-skinned face. “You’re wearing a warning marker,” the young male told him, gesturing towards Dean’s wrist pointedly with one of his delicate antennas. “It’s only visible to races who see in ultraviolet,” he continued easily. “Primarily visible to Arthropoda like Tsalun and myself.”

Dean flushed, remembering the light that had enveloped his identichip. “What kind of marker?” he asked suspiciously. 

“Itinerant,” the Bentaegan clarified helpfully. “Which, in Tsaluna translates as highly ‘undesirable’ and that’s why the Tsalun are acting as though they think you are about to rob a tourist or something equally desperate. Not that they are particularly worried about the well-being of the tourists, but that kind of thing is bad for business so the longer you hang around here, the more likely they are to just arrest you preemptively. The only way to get the marker upgraded to ‘immigrant worker’ is for you to register for work with the immigrant employment bureau. Then you’ll get a three-day grace period upgrading your ‘brand’ to ‘Itinerant Work Seeker’. On day four, if you still haven’t found work, your marker will change to ‘illegal alien’ and you’ll get arrested and transported to an internment camp for later deportation if useful employment can’t be found for you.” 

“An internment camp?” Dean demanded incredulously. “I’m a Federal Citizen. I have a perfect right to live freely on any Alliance Planet and I have sufficient credits to procure legitimate food and accommodation while I seek work, however long it takes.”

At least he hoped he did. So far the listed prices on the menus of all the restaurants he had passed were making him worry that his paltry wages from the L’Astrolabe wouldn’t stretch very far at all. But he reasoned that prices in tourist spots were always hugely inflated in every City throughout the galaxy. It stood to reason that away from the main squares, the cost of food and accommodation would be far lower. 

The Bentaegan snorted rudely. “Tourist accommodation is for tourists. It’s illegal in Arthos for any ‘Itinerants’ to spend Federal currency here at all. The Qui wrote that local law as a way to ensure the rich all-important tourists are never mugged by desperate, undesirable, transient aliens. So the Tsalun will justify your arrest as ‘taking you into protective custody’ to ensure you receive the food and lodgings that you can’t otherwise legally obtain for yourself,” he scoffed. “But, it’s not as bad as I probably made it sound. Trust me, I’ve lived on Tsalun for three years and I’ve never seen anyone returned from a camp in order to be actually forcefully deported, so I guess everyone does get offered a job eventually.” 

“Woah,” Dean said. “I really should have read the immigration instructions better, huh? Oh, no, that’s right. They weren’t printed in FedStan.” 

“That old trick, huh? The Tsalun think it’s ‘funny’ to pull it on all would-be immigrants. All the documentation is available in FedStan, which they all also speak perfectly by the way. They just get their kicks out of being complete assholes. Still, the Qui are even bigger dicks in their own way. At least the Tsalun spit in your face, instead of smiling before stabbing you in the back.”

“What the hell did I sign?” Dean demanded worriedly. He’d already spent more years of his life than he cared to remember locked up ‘for his own good’. To hell with the idea he’d ever let it happen to him again.

“Don’t panic. I already gave you the cliff notes of the worst of it. And none of that crap applies to _you_ anyway. Arthos seriously is a fantastic place to live. Well, for guys like us at least. Like I said, I’ve been here three years and I have already collected enough credits that when I do finally leave, I’ll be doing it in serious style. Coming here was the best decision I ever made.”

Dean really looked at the Bentaegan for the first time. 

And almost vomited.

“Guys like us,” the Bentaegan had said.

On the right side of his face, slightly beneath the outer corner of his eye, the alien had a tiny, tear-drop-sized tattoo of a butterfly.

_Mariposa_.

Throat so dry he could barely draw a breath, let alone speak, Dean rubbed fretfully at the clear, unmarked skin under his own eye. 

“Can’t even imagine why you went through the procedure to have the tattoo lasered off,” the Bentaegen said, looking genuinely bewildered at the notion. “When I learned the other stipulations that went with having that done, I decided I could definitely live with my own visible brand even after my emancipation. You sure as hell must have felt desperate to have paid that price. But it’s none of my business. Your secrets are your own, brother, and, obviously, you must have had good reason. But you only had a surface removal. Any Arthropod can still see the shadow of it under your flesh anyway, so it’s a bit pointless in a place like Tsaluna. It’s probably the main reason why the guards are already keeping such a close eye on you. Regardless of Tsalunniqui attitudes towards all other immigrants, none of the Tsalun will want to risk having to explain to the Qui that a Mariposa came to harm in Arthos. We are as highly valued here as we are everywhere else in the Universe, regardless of our species, but more importantly it can actually be to our advantage here. The trick to finding happiness in Tsaluna is simply in ensuring our value ends up in our own credit accounts rather than anyone else’s. Play it smart and you won’t regret coming here.” 

Dean swallowed heavily. As the Bentaegen said, Dean’s story was his own business and, besides, there was nothing he had to say about how he felt about his ‘former’ ranking that wouldn’t sound insulting to the only person who had displayed any friendliness to him so far on Tsalun. He respected the distinction the alien was making. Perhaps ‘fine’ society throughout the Federation considered acting the Polilla to be a distasteful, if totally legal profession, whereas being a fully-trained, finely-educated courtesan was considered a position of great respectability. But in reality, the former was a form of ‘freedom’ and the latter was nothing more than slavery. 

But Dean had options. 

Despite his family, despite the efforts of the Academy to mold him into a perfect, respectable toy for the elite and even despite Michael’s cruel attempt to trick him into voluntarily signing himself back over into ownership even after he thought he’d successfully escaped his past, Dean had spent the last eighteen months proving that he could pass as a normal citizen. That the rules and regulations purportedly written to ‘protect’ Mariposa were nothing more than a wicked lie. The laws that ‘protected’ those of his former rank from ‘exploitation’ were nothing more than ways to ensure he could never slip the yoke hung around his shoulders at the age of twelve. 

So all he said was, “Could you tell me where the ‘Immigrant Employment Bureau’ is located?” 

“Hey, forget the rules. You’re a special case, my friend. You don’t need to go to the Bureau at all,'' the Bentaegen said. “I don’t know Earth. Perhaps being Mariposa on your planet is never a good thing. I admit it’s common knowledge that on many planets it is _rarely_ a good thing. But, trust me, if you play your cards right in Tsaluna, it is a splendid thing to be. Come with me and I can sort you out an interview with my ‘Patron’. I guarantee he’ll offer you a prime contract so fast you’ll be living in luxury by nightfall.” 

The offer was meant kindly, so Dean resisted the urge to react with fury. He swallowed his anger and simply said, “I removed my rank for a reason, friend. I have no interest in reclaiming it. You said there was an employment bureau?” 

The Bentaegen shrugged and pulled a map up on his wrist-device to offer directions. “My name’s Reney,” he said. “I’m sure we’ll meet again very soon. But, since I am sure you have good reasons for trying a different path, I wish you sincere good luck in trying to find an alternative occupation.”

Dean stood and watched as Reney walked away, his stride confident; saw a Tsalun in his path step respectfully out of his way; saw several human tourists excitedly poking each other to gain attention and then rudely staring after the beautiful Bentaegen as he swept past them; saw several of the richer-looking tourists narrowing their eyes after the lithe blue-skinned boy in obvious contemplative hungry interest. 

And for a brief moment he wondered whether he had made a mistake in turning down Reney’s offer. 

Perhaps in this new life, on this new Planet, it was time to accept the parts of himself that he couldn’t change and begin finally actively using them to his advantage instead of letting them be the tools by which other people tried to control him.

Maybe if he hadn’t tried to hide his status, hadn’t genuinely believed Michael didn’t even know he was Mariposa, he wouldn’t have ended up desperate enough to flee halfway across the Universe in the first place. 

If he’d always known Michael’s sole interest in him was his rank, that Michael’s apparent love had always been just an elaborate deception, then Dean’s own heart wouldn’t have ended up shattered along with his dreams. 

So perhaps the answer was simply to finally embrace his rank. To accept it, profit by it and give up the childish dream that anyone would ever genuinely learn to love him for himself. To finally listen to the words of his family that he should have been grateful to have been considered ‘special’ enough to be sold to the Academy. That he had been sold for his own benefit, not for theirs. That he hadn’t been sold at all. 

Problem was, no matter which way you cut it, the Federation had paid John Winchester an astronomical amount of credits for signing him over to the Academy. Just as someone had then paid the Academy an even far larger amount of credits to buy the privilege of being entitled to eventually claim him when he finally reached maturity.

If an anonymous someone could buy you, sight unseen, then it stood to reason that you sure as hell had been _sold_ in the first place.

The fact that particular someone had never arrived to claim his or her ‘prize’, that Dean had left his maturation ceremony still single and unclaimed, and had only through the unexpected kindness of Professor Cain’s intervention been allowed to leave the Academy and go to University to further his education – his value - at the behest of that anonymous someone (who had at least sent further funds for that purpose, even though they couldn’t ever be bothered to actually come and claim him), and had somewhere between graduating and meeting Michael somehow managed to legally ‘lose’ the tattoo that marked him as Mariposa. All of that was now ancient history. 

So maybe Reney had the right of it. 

Maybe the only way Dean would ever be sure to avoid another ‘Michael’ was by selling the very thing that made him so valuable. And, by doing so, sully it enough that no-one with any level of ‘respectability’ would wish to associate with him anyway. 

But that was taking the ‘easy’ way out. 

Dean didn’t do easy.

Because ‘easy’ was just another word for giving up, wasn’t it? 

So, when he reached the neon sign self-importantly proclaiming it belonged to “The ONLY Licensed Immigrant Employment Bureau” in Arthos, despite the building’s otherwise dilapidated appearance, he straightened his shoulders and ‘confidently’ walked inside. 

Several minutes later, his confident aura was taking a hammering.

“Okay, so there’s no requirement for engineers or mechanics,” Dean accepted reluctantly, having been forewarned of that probability by Chief Rufus. “But what about maintenance roles? Or, damnit, serving staff or even kitchen or housekeeping roles in one of the tourist facilities? There has to be something.” 

“Not a chance in hell of finding you that kind of work this side of next Spring,” the red-headed Faelar told him, with an expression of seemingly genuine apology on her face despite the bluntness of her words. “If you’d gotten here a few months ago you’d have been golden. No-one native to this planet wants to work in the tourist industry. They see it as nothing more than a necessary evil; allowing a certain degree of tourism and immigration is the price of their membership of the Federal Alliance. But the Tsalun hate all non-aerial species and the Qui are so exclusive they don’t even seem to like the Tsalun. So hiring an Earther to cater for the needs of humanoid visitors would have made sense a few months ago, but nobody is going to want to hire you now. 

“The problem is, the L’Astrolabe is the last Earther vessel scheduled to dock here this year. So even the hotels, bars and restaurants in Arthos that are still looking for seasonal workers to deal with the tourists won’t be interested in hiring a human for the job. I really hate the discrimination you young-world people face here. I mean, Earthers have mastered space travel so you’re clearly not a bunch of barely-evolved mud monkeys, whatever many of the Qui say, but still, the attitude towards your people around here isn’t exactly favorable, you know? There’s an assumption your intellectual capacity is somewhat… um… limited. Nobody is going to offer you, or any other young-worlder, a job that requires any degree of intelligence.” 

Which sounded kind of ironic under the circumstances since many Earthers had the same condescending attitude towards Faelar, because they looked so much like cute mythical fairies. He didn’t think it would help his cause to mention the fact to the tiny, cute, butterfly-winged female. He was sure she came across enough discrimination herself in Tsalun, since she also was an immigrant and, unless his senses were mistaken, she was a biological Submissive. Dean’s own specific experiences with discrimination didn’t prevent him from feeling sympathetic to victims of lesser injustices. He didn’t doubt that, in her own way, this Faelar also suffered an amount of daily prejudice.

“Look, ma’am. I’m looking for a job. Any job. I’m not picky. Any honest work will do. Your sign claims you are the only licensed ‘Immigrant Employment Bureau’ in Arthos, and it’s apparently a pre-condition of my immigration status that I have to be in paid employment to stay here, so you must be able to offer me something; even if it’s just street-sweeping,” Dean argued reasonably. 

“Call me Charlie,” the redhead said. “And that isn’t how the Bureau works. Businesses post all available vacancies with us just to stop guys like you going around knocking on their doors looking for work. Which is illegal here, by the way, so don’t be tempted to try it. Asking for a job is the fastest way to get yourself arrested for not _having_ a job. But if we don’t have anything suitable for humans on our books at the moment, then we don’t have anything.” She shrugged helplessly. 

“Federal Law specifically outlaws discrimination based purely on species,” Dean argued. “I get that the Tsalunniqui don’t really want off-worlders settling here, but they’ve chosen to join the Alliance so too bad if they don’t like the consequences. If they want to be in the club, they’ve got to play by the rules. You too. Your employers are breaking the law if they condone this kind of crap.”

“They are,” Charlie agreed. “Which is why I’m supposed to give you a bunch of application forms now and pretend you have a chance of getting the roles. Then I’m supposed to pat you on the back and commiserate with you when you inevitably lose out to another applicant, and if you get all bent out of shape about it I’m supposed to make you think it’s got nothing to do with your species and that you just aren’t good enough to make the grade. But fuck that shit. I’m not going to let you get your hopes raised and then dashed. That’s just cruel. Better to let you know the truth right from the get go.”

Although Dean appreciated her honesty, it wasn’t getting him any closer to what he needed. “So let’s go back to what you said about not being able to offer me the kind of work you think I’m looking for. I repeat my own comment that I will do any job. You can’t be telling me there’s nobody who will hire me at all.”

Charlie winced visibly, her delicate moth-like wings fluttering with obvious distress. “You specifically said any ‘honest’ work,” she reminded him. “The Bureau doesn’t deal with illegal occupations but some of the work we promote is definitely on the hairy side of ‘honest’. You’re considered an ‘exotic’ here,” she told him significantly. “I can definitely find you work in the… um… entertainment industry, but I kinda got the impression you weren’t looking for anything of that nature. Even though you’ve definitely got the looks to pull it off.”

Dean blushed furiously. “How about something outside the city? I have agricultural qualifications too.”

Which was true. Mechanical engineering wasn’t Dean’s only talent. Truth be told, tinkering with engines had never been more than an enjoyable, if ‘totally unsuitable’, hobby that his fiancé had always considered ‘beneath’ his station, which, come to think of it, should have been Dean’s first clue that Michael was a total douchebag.

Dean’s actual advanced degree was in chemistry. Specifically, in Horticultural Xenobiotic Technology. 

It had been Cain who had encouraged him to study the topic, even though all the other Professors at the Academy had considered it almost heretical for a Mariposa to study ‘science’ at such an advanced level. Not to mention ultimately ‘pointless’, since it was against the law for someone of Dean’s former ‘rank’ to be forced to work for a living. Which actually meant, in practical terms, it would have been impossible for anyone to knowingly hire him before his emancipation. No employer would ever willingly set themselves up for the kind of legal repercussions of a Mariposa’s titleholder subsequently claiming their ‘property’ had been working under duress.

It wasn’t that the idea of a Mariposa getting an advanced degree was a problem in itself. It was only unusual in that most Courtesans were claimed by their ‘owners’ at an age that made further education unlikely. Courtesans were already highly educated anyway, even at their normal claiming age of eighteen. Graduating the Academy required a student to speak at least two languages in addition to FedStan. A courtesan was also expected to be able to converse confidently on a multitude of subjects, from history to literature to geography and even the convoluted topic of Federal politics. Their presence was always to delight, to entertain and to solace. To be beautiful, charming and witty at all times. Mariposa were intended to be the companions of statesmen and women, of planetary leaders and of the Universe’s great movers and shakers. None of those candidates wished to take ownership of ill-educated idiots, regardless of their obedience and physical perfection. 

Cain, however, had encouraged Dean to choose the subject he genuinely wished to study. He had said, somewhat sadly, that since this was probably the only time in his life when his own wishes would be taken into consideration, Dean ought to make the most of it. And, since Dean’s anonymous ‘owner’ had provided sufficient funding for the further education, and had not placed any specific stipulations upon how those funds should be applied, Dean had been free to choose whichever subject he’d liked.

Which was why Dean, ex-Mariposa, was actually a fully qualified Horticultural Xenobiotic Technician. 

His particular degree had granted him a skill-set more highly suitable for use in colonization than on an established planet, but it was still one he imagined even the alien Tsalunniqui could surely find value in. And one he didn’t think Michael even recalled was in Dean’s Portfolio. On the only occasion he had dropped his area of specific intellectual interest into a conversation - very early on in their relationship before he’d realized that the only subject that really interested Michael was Michael - Michael had frowned repressively and pointed out that people of his social standing had staff to tend to gardens – if they were bourgeois enough to be interested in living anywhere except a modern high-rise condominium - and had moved the conversation forwards with such rapidity that Dean had never had the opportunity to point out that he hadn’t been studying to be a ‘gardener’.

Remembering that conversation, though, just made Dean flush with shame. No matter how many times he told himself that he wasn’t a ‘victim’, that the situation hadn’t been foreseeable and that he had gotten the hell out of the relationship the minute it had turned ‘bad’, the truth was that his relationship with Michael had been abusive from the get-go. Dean just hadn’t recognized the full truth of that reality until the slights, put-downs, insults and gas lighting had evolved into Michael actually revealing the full horrifying truth to him, after the point when Michael believed he had already ‘won’ and that Dean would have no option except to submit.

It had been so gradual. That was the thing. The terrible, destructive evolution of their relationship had taken almost two years to mature. Like a frog slowly being boiled alive, Dean hadn’t even felt the temperature gradually rising around him until it was too late. It had begun with no more than a little condescension, the almost paternalistic pointing out of the differences between them. Of Dean’s lack of familiarity with Michael’s world of wealth and privilege. 

The stupid thing was it wasn’t even really true. Well, at least not in the way Michael had implied. Dean had been thoroughly schooled in how to behave in the very highest of societies but it had been impossible to say so without admitting he had been trained to be Mariposa and where Dean actually initially struggled was that Michael’s world, whilst vastly more sophisticated than his own, was far less cultured than the one Dean had been painstakingly trained to live inside.

How could he have ever explained that Michael, rich and successful as he was, simply wasn’t even in the same stratosphere as the type of ‘owner’ a Mariposa was trained to please?

Pretending to be nothing more than what he genuinely was at that time after his emancipation; just a pretty but impoverished intern working for one of HortlanTec’s laboratories and inadvertently catching the less than professional attention of one of his employers; Dean had genuinely struggled to conform to Michael Hortlan’s expectations. 

Initially, it had seemed only reasonable that he should make efforts to conform slightly to the societal expectations of Michael’s world. The idea that Michael; older, suave, sophisticated, charming, successful, handsome; had been genuinely interested in him at all had immediately put Dean onto the back foot in their relationship.

So easy, then, to find himself second guessing his own behavior when they were together. To submit outside of the bedchamber rather than only in Michael’s bed. To learn to mind his language. To dress a little more carefully. To mold his behavior and appearance into a form more aerodynamically suited for gliding through Michael’s life. To pretend that he enjoyed eating in restaurants where portions looked like works of art and satisfied his eyes rather than his hunger. To attend endlessly boring operas and plays, and pretend to enjoy them because if he didn’t, if he admitted to boredom, then Michael would stare at him with pointed disapproval, muttering under his breath that clearly culture was wasted on him. 

Michael had groomed him so carefully into habitual compliance, building so cleverly on the lessons subconsciously instilled into him at the Academy, that the only surprising thing was that Dean had somehow eventually found the strength to run away. 

Charlie interrupted his musing with a sigh. “The agricultural operations on Tsaluna are almost exclusively automated. The few remaining manual positions are filled by Tsalun who, forgive me, are far more biologically suited to tasks requiring physical strength and all managerial and research positions are filled by Qui. Your human qualifications will not count for much with any of the Tsalunniqui. Their intellectual snobbery does not allow for the consideration of the educational facilities on any of the Young-World planets as having any discernible value,” she pointed out apologetically. “It perhaps isn’t too late for you to rejoin the crew of the L’Astrolabe. They aren’t departing until tomorrow morning. You should give the idea some serious consideration. I believe your skill set would be far more appreciated in a world such as Vantixian.” 

For a moment, Dean seriously considered the prospect. Perhaps if he really begged Rufus, the Chief would somehow find a way to break the rule that the lesser crew, once disembarked, could not return to the Ship. Just because Vantixian was one of the most obvious places Michael might search for him was possibly not a good enough reason to write that world off altogether. It was entirely possible that Michael had no intention of chasing after him anyway.

It was, of course, far more likely that Michael was already sitting in Vantixian, like a hungry fat spider, just waiting for the L’Astrolabe to arrive and deposit Dean into his web. Michael had his own yacht and Vantixian was only four months’ distance from Earth if warped there directly. Anyone who thought it was unlikely that Michael would have chased him so many thousands of light years clearly knew nothing about the way Michael’s mind worked.

“I’ll see you dead before I ever see you in another man’s arms,” Michael had told him, when Dean had threatened to leave him, and Dean had been given damned good reason to believe he’d meant every word. 

Because the biggest betrayal of all was that Michael had, apparently, _always_ known Dean was Mariposa.

And having gotten so close to trapping him in his web of treachery and deceit, Michael was never going to simply give up and slink off back into the woodwork again.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” Charlie asked, blushing furiously, her wings fluttering loudly in the small office. “Why don’t you want to take advantage of your ranking? Because this whole situation would be an awful lot easier if I was trying to find you a job here as a Mariposa rather than as a mere human.”

Dean looked at her in horror. “Can every damned person on Tsaluna see the remnants of my tattoo?” he demanded.

“Oh, I doubt it,” she assured him. “I don’t think the Qui see in the ultraviolet spectrum. Anatong definitely don’t. Neither do Xiain or human-types like yourself. But a good 60% of the local population here in Arthos will probably instantly recognize you as being Mariposa,” she said. “Since you’re emancipated, your rank wouldn’t be a problem if I could find you work in the tourist district. The Tsalun wouldn’t approve of someone like you doing manual labor, but they wouldn’t actually stop you from doing it. But you do realize that your rank also offers you unique advantages? Mariposa have certain… um… freedoms here that other immigrants don’t. You are probably the only manner of immigrant who has the right to be… well, self-employed here,” she said, with deliberate delicacy.

“I know. I met a Bentaegen Mariposa ‘entertainer’ on my way here,” Dean said, his voice deliberately devoid of censure. “He apparently finds the freedom here ‘splendid’.”

“Oh, Reney,” Charlie said, with a smile. “He’s such a sweetheart, isn’t he? If I were into males, I think I would have flapped my wings in his direction a long time ago. Well, except that, obviously, I don’t make the kind of money I’d need to buy his attention anyway.”

“No disrespect to him, or any of the other Mariposa here, but I’d personally rather starve than earn my money behaving like a Polilla,” Dean told her bluntly. “I don’t have any moral issue with their choice to do so. I do not judge. I fully understand why they do so. My problem with the idea is purely personal but my position is not negotiable.” 

“I respect that,” Charlie told him. “Though I have to say that Reney claims he has found a degree of true personal satisfaction in using his current occupation to reclaim ownership of his own body. He finds strength from feeling in control of his own destiny for the first time in his life. He genuinely appears to be happy here and I honestly don’t believe it is only the amount of money he earns that is driving him.” 

“What’s his story?” Dean asked. “I didn’t want to ask him such a personal question myself but I thought it was a Universal constant that all Mariposa are claimed at eighteen. How did he end up here on his own without a titleholder holding his leash?”

“How did you?” she retorted archly, but didn’t wait for an answer. “Reney’s story isn’t a secret. It’s much the same as that of the other half-dozen emancipated Mariposa currently living on Tsalun. Something went wrong with their claiming. Either they simply didn’t get collected for whatever reason when they Maturated - maybe their owner died before they were old enough to claim or something similar - but they never subsequently applied to be re-sold by their Academies, or they were claimed but their legal titleholder subsequently died without writing a will specifically leaving them under someone else’s guardianship. Since Mariposa aren’t ‘slaves’,” she said, with a dramatically sarcastic eye roll, “the law is pretty specific throughout the whole alliance. Any Mariposa who manages to demonstrate to a Federal judge’s satisfaction they have survived without the direct care of a titleholder for three years gains the right to request self-emancipation. They can even remove their tattoo entirely, although you’re the first person I’ve met who’s ever actually done it. So I guess their story is probably exactly the same as yours, give or take. Except that they seem to glory in their status, whilst you appear to be trying to hide yours.”

“Habit, I guess,” Dean admitted. “On Earth it’s impossible for an emancipated Mariposa to get a job because no one accepts or respects the fact of their emancipation. The idea a Mariposa might even want to be treated like a normal person is considered a big, impossible joke.” 

“That’s illegal,” Charlie pointed out. “You said it yourself. All Federal Citizens are equal, regardless of rank, gender, designation or status. Well, except when they’re not,” she added, with an eyeroll.

“Yup, exactly, but the legality is a moot point anyway. I wasn’t claimed at eighteen but funds were still provided for my further education. At twenty-one, when my titleholder still failed to come forward to claim me, I was considered something of an embarrassment. It proved relatively easy to file for emancipation, simply because the authorities wanted to avoid the publicity of a legal fight with me, but I had actual real qualifications to offer an employer so I stupidly assumed I would find it easy to support myself. 

“The problem I faced was that nobody would take my job applications seriously. I was fine on paper. I attracted numerous firms until I actually walked into an interview and then people would take one look at my face and I would be politely shown the door and told ‘Go back to the Academy. A pretty thing like you belongs on your knees not in a laboratory’. And when I tried to get a lawyer to take my case on, the damned lawyer told me the same thing. So I finally petitioned to get my tattoo removed completely. Hiding my prior ranking altogether was the only way I could get employment.”

Charlie paled. “I naturally assumed the removal was done illegally,” she whispered.

Dean swallowed and shook his head. “I tried that route at first,” he admitted. “But nobody would risk jail-time for doing it, so I had to ‘pay’ to get it done the hard way through the courts. Full genetic donation followed by permanent sterilization. But doing it was the only option I had other than returning to the Academy with my tail between my legs and begging them to find me a replacement ‘owner’. Which I guess is why ultimately finding out I paid that price for nothing anyway, was a pretty damned big kick in the guts. But, still, I managed to get off Earth eventually, so there’s that…” 

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. Few Mariposa leave their Academies with the ability to fend for themselves at all, no matter which home world they originate from,” Charlie agreed. “The fact you completed your education and went and found yourself a real job at all is the most surprising thing about your story. The few emancipated Mariposa who don’t just give up and return for ‘re-assignment’ choose to use their… um… other valuable skills for survival.”

Dean snorted. “I think Reney, and presumably all the other Mariposa here, have sold you all a fantasy, Charlie. Good for them, I guess. Serves everyone right for falling for the misconception that Butterflies and Moths are interchangeable tattoos.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Despite what everyone clearly imagines about Mariposa, we aren’t actually taught that kind of thing, you know? The Academy teaches us to be charming obedient courtesans for pre-selected owners, not concubines like Polilla who have to use their… um… abilities to snag themselves a permanent Dominant. We are admittedly ‘programmed’ to be subservient, and that behavior inevitably spills into all our interactions, but that’s the limit of it. 

“Sure, Mariposa are thoroughly taught the theory of how to please our owners, but we never receive any actual physical sexual instruction. Although those kinds of classes are offered if a titleholder specifically requests it, they are only given after a formal claiming has taken place and even then are usually evidence that the Mariposa has been found sadly lacking in that regard. The truth is that virginity at the point of claiming is far more valued in a Mariposa than expertise. The original concept of Mariposa was apparently to ensure the survival of genetically pure breeding stock, so the idea of us being trained to be wanton whores is just rumor and speculation to titillate the masses. It makes no true logical sense.”

“Really?” Charlie demanded, before guffawing hugely. “So, basically, you’re saying Mariposa are truly nothing more than a bunch of genetically perfect, cloistered virginal nuns getting sold off to the highest bidder?”

“Yup,” Dean agreed wryly. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s still nothing more than legalized slavery. We don’t get to choose who ends up owning our titles. But the Mariposa Academy is not designed to turn us into sex-craved nymphomaniacs. It’s actually put in place to guard us as ‘verified genetically perfect specimens of our race’ and protect us from general exploitation. The fact we are invariably also biological Submissives is a complete side-issue, not our actual purpose. The form of submission specifically taught to a Mariposa has very little to do with sex at all, really. Unlike normal citizens, even other biological Submissives, our submission is absolute. A perfect Mariposa, whilst capable of conversing with intelligence, is expected to display no actual personality. Our wit and charm, even our so-called ‘opinions’, are no more than pre-programmed responses. 

“We are supposed to present as nothing more than walking dolls. And, as such, are intended to be the playthings of the select elite. Only people with serious power and money are allowed the opportunity to purchase Mariposa from the Academies,” he added, with a shrug. “Which, I guess, is why certain, ruthless, would-be-powerful guys decide it’s worth running an elaborate scam of seduction on an ex-mariposa to trick them into becoming their property. Apparently, being able to display a Mariposa kneeling subserviently at their feet like a trained poodle will help foster their own ambitions immensely,” he added bitterly.

“Why do I think there’s a sad tale behind that comment?” Charlie asked softly.

Dean winced. “Because it turns out that you can’t educate the stupid out of someone. I made a really bad mistake. I trusted my heart to the wrong person after my emancipation. I learned my lesson and got the hell out of Dodge. But the guy I messed up with, well, I think there’s a fairly good chance he might be waiting for me in Vantixian.”

“Shit,” the Faelar cursed succinctly. 

“I made the mistake of accepting his marriage proposal before I realized his whole seduction of me was just an elaborate con,” Dean admitted, flushing with embarrassment. “All my fancy education and nobody ever bothered to explain to me that even ex-mariposa aren’t legally allowed to be anything other than chattel. That my so-called emancipation was never worth the paper it was written on. For instance, it turns out that, legally, my emancipation could always have been instantly dissolved simply by my original titleholder ever getting off their ass and coming to collect me, as long as I wasn’t already registered as someone else’s property by then. 

“In that way, I guess Michael actually did me a favor in a bizarre kind of way because, otherwise, I could have just blithely carried on with my life for years as a supposedly free Citizen whilst remaining totally unaware that, at any moment, some asshole could have just knocked on my door and claimed me like a piece of carelessly lost baggage.”

“That’s obscene,” Charlie exclaimed, her eyes filling with genuine tears of distress.

“Yup. But it’s the Law. A huge tangled mess of statues and amendments, with every world in the Federal Alliance adding their own particular bylaws into the mix until the whole thing has become so convoluted that, despite me spending every free moment for the last eighteen months trying to unravel it enough to find some kind of loophole, I still can’t find a way out my own idiotic mistake. 

“So, I was engaged to be married, but it turns out that Mariposa _can’t_ marry and my so-called fiance knew that all along. Which means by accepting what I thought was a marriage proposal, I have actually apparently formally accepted his intention to become my titleholder. And there are no legal ‘take-backs’. I no longer have the right to refuse his offer to ‘protect me’. He can literally hogtie me, drag me in front of a friendly judge and get the paperwork completed ‘for my own good’ even if I am screaming blue murder throughout the whole ceremony. Any protest I make now will be put down to nothing more than a display of spoilt childish hysteria and ‘cold feet’. Behaviour which, apparently, will prove that I _do_ require the supervision of a titleholder. The more I protest it, the more likely it is to happen.”

“That’s obscene,” Charlie whispered again, as though incapable of finding another way to respond. 

“That’s Federation Law. As a Mariposa, my rights as a Citizen are always trumped by the Federation’s obligation to ‘protect’ me. The law presupposes Mariposa are incapable of making rational decisions on their own behalf. Which translates to the reality that I have no rights whatsoever. And so the only way I can legally stop that bastard claiming me now is to let someone else claim me first instead. Or try to make the hell sure he never gets his hands on me again. Suffice it to say, I’ve gone with the latter option. Still, all things considered, even though it’s risky, it still seems like Vantixian is my only viable choice after all. Let’s hope Rufus was serious about wanting me to stay onboard the L’Astrolabe, since it will probably take some fancy footwork to get me back onto the crew.” 

Charlie frowned thoughtfully. “I think Vantixian is an insane choice under the circumstances. Even a small risk of that creeper being there in wait for you sounds like a risk too far to me. What about Nova Sergiev? It’s an independent, non-Alliance, off-grid, small mining colony at the very edge of the Helix Nebula. A multiracial co-operative, which is unusual. Primarily a combination of Molgaten and Faelar but there’s a small thriving Earther population there too. Humans are extremely welcome because, honestly, neither Molgaten or Faelar are built for manual work. Not that I’m saying you’d get stuck with the menial shit. Just that your physicality would be a huge added bonus for the whole community.

“Nova Sergiev has an atmosphere, so it’s a satellite world rather than a moon, but even the Planet it orbits is off the main shipping routes. Definitely not a place that tourist ships will ever visit. It’s still a bit rough and basic there at the moment but everyone is working hard and pulling together to make the place more habitable. In another decade or two, it will probably be a lovely place to live.

“I happen to know they are desperate for both engineers and xenobiotic scientists. So much so that for someone with your qualifications they’d not only waive the usual claim fee but probably offer you shares for free, and help you to build a home and maybe even offer you a small salary to get you started until your share of the mining income comes in. The guys there won’t care about your origins or your rank or even how terribly pretty you are. All that will matter to practical people like them is your skillset. That’s the kind of place you can _really_ start a new life, Dean. Someplace that bastard will never find you. Somewhere that Federation Law doesn’t apply even if he somehow _does_.” 

“Sounds perfect,” Dean agreed longingly. “But the reason I can’t even think about emigrating to a place like that is I have no way to get there. If I tried to hire a pirate vessel, we both know they’d just pocket my money and then sell me to the highest bidder anyway. There’s a huge black market for any vulnerable biological Submissives, and Mariposa and Polilla are the biggest cash cows of all. 

“The legal supply ships that aren’t likely to be slavers, and fly to off-grid worlds such as the Independent colonies, are a lot more stringent about their boarding procedures than cruise ships. Even if my slightly dodgy I.D. held up, my prior rank would inevitably be revealed by a deep scan and even though I had my tattoo erased by court order, I have learned to my cost that my actual legal status didn’t change.

“Ever since that incident with the courtesan of the Emperor of Khotressia, the one that bankrupted one of the biggest transportation companies in this sector, standard insurance won’t cover any vessel with Mariposa on board. And not even a totally independent vessel would dare to fly anywhere without Federation-backed insurance. Why do you imagine so many ex-Mariposa like Reney and myself end up on Tsaluna anyway? Simply because it’s one of the only planets on the regular routes of Tourist Cruise Liners; the only commercial passenger ships insured to carry _anyone_. The galaxy is a huge place but the options open to emancipated Mariposa are extremely limited.”

“But yet you aren’t ‘slaves’,” Charlie growled. “You have the exact same rights as any other Federation Citizen as long as you don’t want to work, or travel, or marry.”

“Welcome to my world,” Dean agreed bitterly.

“Well, luckily for you, I happen to have an ace up my sleeve, otherwise I wouldn’t have been cruel enough to mention Nova Sergiev to you at all,” Charlie said. “My wife, Doratea, happens to be the pilot of one of Nova Sergiev’s independent supply ships. She’s due to dock back here for a fortnight in approximately a month and, trust me, I’ll have no problem convincing her to give you a ride back there when she leaves, insurance be damned.” 

Dean’s eyes lit up with hope for a moment. Then he groaned as reality set in. “I can’t wait six weeks,” he reminded her sadly. “I only have three days to find a job before I get arrested and thrown in an internment camp.”

“I have an idea about that too,” Charlie told him. “I get that you don’t want to be an actual ‘entertainer’, but how strongly do you feel about being an object of lustful fantasy in general?”

“Again, welcome to my world,” Dean said, with a sigh. 

“There’s a Tsalun who runs a drinking and dining establishment on the other side of Arthos, near the Qui university district. He caters almost exclusively for Qui clientele. The Qui are complete self-important dicks as a rule and generally best avoided. But on the plus side, they are almost human in appearance, well except for their wings of course, but the point is that facially they are very similar to races such as ours and that means they are one of the few races in this sector who are likely to find Earthers like yourself to be _genuinely_ desirable. You’re still different enough to be exotic but similar enough that your looks conform to the Qui idea of aesthetic beauty. 

“Crowley, that’s the guy who runs the place, is very picky about all of his servers. Chooses them purely on aesthetic grounds. Fair warning, he likes them to flash quite a bit of flesh and flirt with the customers. It’s good for business, apparently. But it’s all strictly above board. No actual prostitution. Most of the customers are students or University staff, so it’s not seedy. Just a bit bohemian. Crowley just wants pretty, personable overly friendly staff who encourage customers to hang around longer and so spend more credits. He changes his staff a lot and likes to employ a mix of designations. He even employs non-designates if they’re pretty enough. Likes to keep the punters interested by supplying a regular supply of new and different eye candy. I think I could use your Mariposa status to convince him to hire you as a server for a few weeks, just to keep you legal until Dor gets back here.” 

“You can’t use my status to sell me to him. I’d rather end up in the camp than have my surface tattoo restored, even temporarily,” Dean told her bluntly. “Whether Faelar and arthropods can see the underlying mark or not, I am never going to willingly wear that brand on my skin again.”

“I get that,” she said. “I’m starting to realize the true obscenity of what was done to you, Dean, and I’d never condone anything that supported you having to choose to wear such a visible badge of what definitely sounds like nothing more than slavery. The point is, though, that to a Tsalun like Crowley, you will probably look butt-ugly regardless. It’s only the fact that he’ll be able to see you’re Mariposa with his own eyes that will convince him you must be drop-dead gorgeous regardless of his own personal perception to the contrary. He isn’t interested in hiring guys that he finds attractive. He needs staff that the _Qui_ are going to drool over.”

“I could handle that,” Dean agreed reluctantly. “I don’t have any issue with the idea of people looking at me. The one positive thing the Academy taught me is complete confidence in my physical appearance. As long as it is strictly a look but don’t touch kind of deal.” 

Charlie winced. “I don’t think it’s quite _that_ innocent,” she admitted. “I think things like groping and ass-slapping go with the territory. But I sincerely doubt it’s more than that. I don’t think he even allows kissing on the premises. My understanding is that his staff are definitely visual accessories rather than sex workers. I believe it’s more a licensing issue than due to any specific moralistic position, but always better to bank on a Tsalun’s self-interest than his good nature anyway.” 

Dean gulped heavily. “I can cope with being perceived of as a sex object,” he told her bluntly. “It’s something I’ve had to learn to deal with. Where I have a fundamental problem is if this Crowley wants me to act in a promiscuous way. That would inevitably lead to people actively pursuing me and I tend to react badly when faced with that kind of scenario. I don’t have the ability to mentally distance myself. I’m so worried I might let myself unwittingly slip into pre-programmed behavior patterns, like I did with Michael, that my first instinct when faced with sexual aggression would probably be to lash out preemptively to avoid the situation completely. Mariposa or not, it turns out I’m not a very submissive Submissive .”

“I didn’t think it was even possible for a Mariposa to react violently to sexual advances,” she confessed, looking stunned but impressed. “Actually, I didn’t think any biological Submissive could reject a compatible Dominant, let alone a trained Submissive like you. I definitely know I could never raise a hand against Dor. Well, I mean I wouldn’t want to, anyway, but even if I did, I honestly don’t think I could.”

Dean flushed hotly. “Neither did I until Michael crowed in my face about my stupidity in falling for his seduction,” he admitted. “Until that moment, I definitely had no idea I was capable of physically striking a Dominant. I mean, he wasn’t a Praevalen, but he was a true biological Dominant, rather than an elective one, so we had a genuine pheromone connection. I had completely submitted to him both emotionally and sexually up until that point. Otherwise I guess I would hardly have wanted to marry him at all. But when he laughed at me, told me he couldn’t be bothered to ‘pretend’ any longer and that I should just ‘shut the fuck up’ and do as I was told because I had no choice anyway… well, I just snapped and threw a punch.”

“You actually struck him?” she gasped. “Not just threatened him but actually hit him?”

“I hit him so hard I knocked the bastard out,” Dean replied. “It gave me a head start. Gave me time to start running. And, eighteen months later, I still haven’t stopped.”

“That’s why you think he won’t stop chasing you, isn’t it? It’s not just the fact he wants to ‘own’ a Mariposa. You’ve mortally wounded his pride. No one who identifies as Dominant would take such a humiliation lying down but a biological Dominant probably can’t let it go. I can’t even begin to imagine the effect on a Dom of their chosen Submissive deliberately breaking the bond. It’s unheard of. It’s logical to assume it’s not going to be pretty though. His pheromones are probably transmitting so much foul bitterness in a wide radius that I doubt any other Submissive can even bear to be in the same room with him now. You’ve done more than just reject him. You’ve probably ruined him.”

“He deserved it. He deserved worse,” Dean snapped defensively.

“I agree,” she said darkly. “Which makes it even more important he never catches you.”

“I know. But working at this Club will be a problem for me. It would be so much easier if I could just tell myself that six weeks of any amount of personal degradation would be little enough price to pay for a chance of true freedom. But I just don’t think I could actually go through with it. In fact, I _know_ I couldn’t. The next time someone puts their hands on me without permission and expects me to act as though I ‘like’ it, I’ll probably try to knock them out too,” Dean admitted. “It’s like… I dunno… kind of like I had years worth of resentment built up inside me but I didn’t even realize it was there until the moment when Michael laughed at me. And then it was like a dam broke and it all came spilling out of me in one punch. But the thing is, the Dam’s shattered now. I can’t rebuild it. I can’t stuff all these feelings back inside myself and ‘play’ Mariposa again.”

“The sleeper has awakened, huh?” Charlie said, with an understanding smile. 

Dean nodded. “Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not stomping around in wounded fury. I’m not spoiling for a fight. Whether I’ve rejected my Mariposa training or not, I’m still a genuine biological Submissive. My instincts are still to bend with the wind rather than struggle against it. But I won’t ever allow myself to be abused again.”

“I understand,” she commiserated. “Even the idea of you having to play ‘eye candy’ sucks, but at least this way you would be officially registered as an immigrant worker. You would have full protected legal status on Tsaluna. I can’t think of any better option that doesn’t involve you ending up arrested. And, well, I don’t know if it’s true but there are rumors about those internment camps. I don’t think the fact people never actually get deported from Tsaluna is necessarily a good thing. I suspect someone like you would somehow get ‘lost’ inside the system. The kind of Tsalunniqui mandated ‘suitable’ job role found for you would probably involve you being sold off to work for some Qui living on a remote estate and, well, I doubt they would buy you just to work in their kitchen.”

“You’re saying the Tsalunniqui endorse real slavery?” 

“I don’t know for sure,” Charlie said. “All I know is that if any biological Submissive comes to Tsaluna and slips through the cracks and falls out of the official ‘immigration’ procedure, they never get seen again. Draw your own conclusions.”

Dean chewed it over slowly. He remembered screaming at Michael that he would never kneel for him again. Would never kneel for anyone ever again. What Charlie was describing at Crowley’s establishment was far too close to submission for comfort. Kneeling wasn’t necessarily the act itself, for all that too was a fundamental part of being Mariposa. The term ‘Kneeling’ encompassed an entirety of submissive behaviors. Of allowing himself to become nothing more than an object, a pet, a thing.

Six weeks. Six short weeks and he could leave for Nova Sergiev and get the kind of opportunity he had barely even dreamed might be possible. For the first time since he was sold as a child, he could see a genuine possible escape from the curse of his genetic ranking. A truly independent colony. One that didn’t subscribe to Federation Law. A world where the word Mariposa carried no weight or significance. Where he wouldn’t have to constantly hide in fear of discovery.

Charlie, somehow, unbelievably, was offering him the one thing he had never truly believed possible.

Freedom.

And, maybe that was the one thing in the Universe that might be worth kneeling for.  
  


“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he muttered, a couple of hours later, as he followed Charlie down a dark, dingy alleyway towards a battered metal door surrounded by garbage cans. “I thought you said this was a high class place.” 

“Trust me, if we’d approached the front of the building you’d have been blown away. Infernum is pretty stunning architecturally if approached from the front. I admit creeping up on it from the back is a bit spooky and off putting though. Still, best you know where the staff entrance is in case he does hire you. Which he will, of course,” she added hurriedly. “Don’t worry about that. This interview is just a formality. I had him from the minute I called and told him you were Mariposa.”

Dean scowled but let the comment pass unchallenged. He’d overheard the conversation so he knew she’d made it clear to the Club owner that he was not only emancipated but also unbranded. Which meant, legally, that even if Crowley hired him, he wouldn’t even be allowed to hint about Dean’s ‘true’ status to his clientele. It still rankled though that to Crowley, and even Charlie, the primary consideration was that Dean had been ranked. No matter what legal paperwork had since been done, no matter that he no longer wore a butterfly tattoo on his face, nothing Dean could ever do would negate the fact that at twelve years old, when he’d faced the standard obligatory genetic screening that had condemned him, he had been judged ‘pure’.

The effects of solar radiation and xenobiotic corruption, coupled with interbreeding between the few genetically compatible species, meant that original genetic purity was evidenced in less than 0.000000025% of any native population. Out of the 12 billion humans who lived on or originated from Earth, less than 300 were Mariposa. Perhaps twice as many again were Polilla To the best of his knowledge, that figure was still almost four times higher than was true for most species. For the Old Races, such as the Qui, who had existed for millennia longer than the young races, the number of living Mariposa within their own species could be counted on one hand.

Since Mariposa didn’t breed ‘true’ and, anyway, the honest definition of a ‘pure’ specimen was that they also lacked the positive effects of genetic adaptation, Dean had never understood why he was ‘valuable’ at all. Surely a Mariposa really was nothing more than a genetic throwback. 

And the more he had studied the effects of Xenobiotic influences on biological organisms, the more convinced he’d become that there was no genuine way in which the specific test that proved genetic purity somehow always confirmed it in a biological Submissive and one who was a specimen of outstanding physical beauty. 

That wasn’t how genetics worked.

Many of the genetic traits that caused unique beauty were directly related to xenobiotic factors. There was a reason genetically modified crops were more uniform and attractive than organically grown ones. The same principles were surely true of people too. 

And where were all the genetically pure non-designates and Dominants? Where were the unattractive pure Submissives? The galaxy was filled with some seriously butt-ugly people, yet none of them ever were judged to be genetically ‘pure’. That made no sense unless your hypothesis held that all people were supposed to be aesthetically pleasing. If that was the case, then the amount of genetic degradation in the Galaxy was considerably higher than previously suspected. If anything, as a genetic throwback, shouldn’t a Mariposa be _less_ attractive than a standard person?

Dean had been privately convinced for a long time that the whole concept of Mariposa was a long-con by the Federation. Simply a way for the rich and powerful to legally enslave those people they perceived as fitting some secret criteria that simply judged them as being the most desirable. 

Unfortunately, whatever the real truth, there was no point in false modesty. Dean, like all Mariposa, was physically stunning. It made perfect sense that this Crowley asshole might be interested in hiring him for his looks alone, even if his actual Mariposa status would remain necessarily ‘unspoken’ to the clientele. 

Charlie performed some peculiar rhythm of knocking onto the metallic surface of the door and, after a short delay, it swung open to admit them inside. A glowering Tsalun waved them through, silently indicating they should walk down a long narrow corridor that eventually led them to a small, cramped office where another Tsalun, this one slightly shorter and squatter than the first, was seated at a large, battered wooden desk liberally covered with surprisingly high-end computer monitors and something that appeared, if Dean wasn’t mistaken, to be an actual sub-trans communication array.

So, despite the general tattiness of the room’s appearance, it was obvious that a lot of credits had been spent on the club’s infotech which supported Charlie’s claim that the club itself was far more high-end than was suggested by those parts of it he’d seen so-far with his own eyes. 

The seated Tsalun, who introduced himself as the ubiquitous Crowley, was equally deceptive in appearance. Despite looking like a typical Tsalun, Dean soon had to admit the guy was at least considerably more communicative than any of the Tsalun he’d previously encountered. 

Which, he told himself, was a positive thing despite Crowley’s quickly established propensity for dry sarcasm and sly innuendo. Even though Dean himself was the butt of most of Crowley’s attempts at witticism, it was still preferable to the silent sneering he’d previously encountered from those of Crowley’s race. 

It started with Dean’s name. After spitting and spluttering ‘Din…Din… what the fuck kind of name is DIN,” several times, Crowley decided Dean was simply too stupid to know how his own name was pronounced and declared his name was actually ‘Dey’hahn’. The fact that Crowley’s tall, previously glowering, lackey snorted in clear amusement at the proclamation caused Dean to be highly suspicious that the word Dey’hahn had a specific translation of its own.

“What the fuck’s a Dey’hahn?” he whispered to Charlie, who had alighted on his shoulder to better enjoy the ‘entertainment’. 

She bit her lower lip. “Nothing bad. It’s a Quian word for a fluffy tailed rodent with a reputation for rapid reproduction.” 

“So basically, a rampant squirrel?”

“Dey’hahn are considered extremely cute,” she replied, which wasn’t a ‘no’. “I actually think it means he likes you. I remember one guy he took on, a Molgaten, pretty face, nice body but very cocky attitude, and Crowley decided his name was ‘Pneuzarrat’. It was over a month before someone told the poor guy that the word translated to mean a latrine-dwelling rodent in Quian.” 

Dean snorted softly, reluctantly amused. He could live with having a ‘professional name’, he decided, even one that sounded slightly ridiculous. It was probably preferable to using his own name under the circumstances anyway, really. It would be far easier to distance himself from the proceedings if he was ‘acting’ a fake role under a false name too.

“Can you dance?” Crowley demanded.

“No,” he growled repressively.

“Sing?” 

“No.”

“What the hell do you Mariposa get taught in your Academies? No, don’t answer that. I can guess,” Crowley sneered. “Can you at least wait tables or are you completely useless unless horizontal?” 

Dean glowered at the Tsalun. He highly doubted it would be beneficial to explain to Crowley that what he had actually learned at the academy was how to conjugate verbs in several dead languages and to offer intelligent discourse on the political climate. So all he said was, “Don’t see why not. I can’t see it being that difficult to serve food and drinks.” 

Crowley looked unimpressed. “The trick isn’t to serve drinks. Anyone can get the Qui to drink. Particularly the students. The skill is to get them to buy you a drink too. That’s where the profit is. You sell your company one drink at a time; one shot for fifteen credits and you can stay at their table and chat with them for twenty minutes max. They want another twenty minutes, they buy you another drink. Play your cards right, in a shift you can easily sell at least an extra 150 credits worth of alcohol just by being… charming,” Crowley pronounced, his mandibles chittering as his lips stretched into a definite leer. “You keep one third of your earnings. It’s decent money if you put sufficient effort in.”

“A third?” Dean challenged. “So, basically 50 credits a shift? That’s not a great deal.”

“I have overheads,” Crowley said unapologetically. “And food and lodging is provided, remember. You want more credits? Sell more drinks or add some extracurriculars.” 

“I’m human. I think drinking more than eight or nine shots in a shift would result in fatal alcohol-poisoning,” Dean pointed out dryly.

“The shots are just colored water from a fancy bottle,” Crowley admitted, with a careless shrug. “The bartender will always serve you one of the staff vintages, not the real stuff.”

“You charge your clients 15 credits for me to drink a shot of colored water?” 

“Great isn’t it?” Crowley said wolfishly. 

“Definitely highly profitable,” Dean agreed carefully. 

“Don’t look so disapproving, Dey’hahn. I doubt any of my customers give a shit one way or the other what is going down your pretty little throat. They’re paying for your company, not your pleasure.”

Dean frowned suspiciously. “Charlie told me this gig is strictly above board. Minimal physical contact.”

Crowley chittered quietly for a moment, then said, “That’s debatable. We don’t have an entertainment license. Having said that, the club license only specifically forbids any actual fluid exchange on the premises. Clients can grope, pet or stroke you to their heart’s content whilst you are serving. Some of them definitely like it if you sit on their laps as you keep them company. That tends to encourage them to loosen their purse strings considerably. They can cop a feel. They just can’t lick, kiss or attempt copulation. If you want to sell that kind of thing, do it off premises in your own time but, fair warning, I see you making private arrangements to meet someone later, they had damned well better have spent at least 100 credits in my bar before they leave. Don’t think you can just use my club as a way to run your own side-scam.”

Then he paused and looked at Dean more thoughtfully. “If you do want to be an entertainer though, just say so now. Why would something like you want to serve tables at all? It’s a total waste of your talents. A colleague of mine specializes in the patronage of unique performers and I can arrange that for you with a simple vid call.” 

“I have no interest in prostitution,” Dean told him bluntly, not missing Crowley’s offensive use of the word _something_. “And, being completely honest, I think if some drunken asshole told me to sit on their lap so they could ‘cop a feel’, I’d be more likely to knee them in the groin than agree. I thought this job might involve a bit of nudity and maybe the odd ass slap if I don’t walk by a customer fast enough. That I could handle. What you’re describing is far beyond my comfort zone. Sorry I’ve wasted your time but I don’t think I can do this at all. I’d rather you didn’t lose your license because I put one of your over enthusiastic ‘clients’ into a medical facility.” 

“Hmmm,” Crowley said. “Aren’t you a strange one? I don’t understand it. You don’t look stupid, so why you’d refuse such a lucrative career is beyond me. Still, maybe your loss is my gain. In fact, perhaps it could work to my advantage. Minimum wage. Bar duty only. Lodging provided. Benefits are all mine that way and you get to play untouchable ice princess to your heart’s content.”

“Good idea, boss,” the formerly silent, larger Tsalun said. “Forget using him to serve tables. We stick him behind the bar, where the clients can look and drool but not touch at all. Like a pretty exotic bird in a cage. Use his looks to wind the customers up a bit, then the servers can offer to relieve a bit of the pressure he generates.”

Crowley looked at Dean speculatively. “I think you’re right, Alastair. He’d need exactly the right outfit, but it could work. Mmmm. In fact, the more standoffish you are, Dey’hahn, the more it will create unsatisfied desire. The more they’ll really buy the idea you’re forbidden fruit. Still, we need to gild the lily a little. Make sure they’re really interested. No point you acting the stuck-up bitch if they don’t want the goods anyway. How about make-up?” Crowley suggested. “A temporary brand. Just to confirm your bonafides.”

“No,” Dean replied firmly. “I’ll wear any outfit you like. I don’t have a problem with showing my body. But I won’t wear a Mariposa brand, temporary or not.”

Crowley scowled, his mandibles chittering together in irritation. “I don’t care how pretty you apparently are. That’s no damned use to me. I can get pretty anywhere. Your only value to me is your rank. Most Qui don’t have enough credits to even dream of ever touching a Mariposa. They can’t afford to buy one for real and even the cost of renting one of the used-up ones by the hour is out of the question for the majority of citizens who visit here. They’ll pay a lot for the fantasy though. Looking at you, while paying to touch one of the servers to act out their desires, now that would be in the price range of my average customer. But it’s not going to work if they don’t know what you are.”

“Six weeks,” Charlie whispered urgently to Dean. “Couldn’t you bear it for just six weeks?” 

Dean swallowed heavily as he made the decision. Six weeks of people thinking him a whore wasn’t the issue. Having to face six weeks of people pretending to respect him whilst simultaneously thinking him a whore was unbearable. It was that particular dichotomy that was sickening. The fact that the law obliged everyone to publicly treat a Mariposa with scrupulous politeness, despite everyone simultaneously despising them and perceiving them as nothing more than a rich man’s sex slave. Someone to be privately debauched at will. The most unbearable part of being Mariposa was constantly seeing the sneers hidden behind polite smiles. 

“A moth,” he said eventually. “I will agree to wear a temporary Luna Moth on my cheek.” 

Crowley frowned at him speculatively. “You want to be marked as a Polilla?” 

“If I have to play the role of whore, even only visually, I prefer to be seen as a moth rather than a butterfly,” Dean replied. “It will allow for more genuine honesty in my interactions, won’t it?” he added bitterly. 

A Moth tattoo marked someone who had been _almost_ judged Mariposa. Someone whose tiny, almost imperceptible, genetic imperfection disqualified them from entrance into a Courtesan Academy. Denied the ‘opportunity’ to become Courtesans, they inevitably became trained concubines instead. Nobody felt the need to be polite to a Polilla, but otherwise they were perceived in roughly the same way as Mariposa by people who were ignorant of the difference. Which apparently encompassed most people. 

Reney and the other emancipated Mariposa on Tsaluna were successfully thriving from the common public misunderstanding that the two roles were the same, the only difference being the intended ‘clients’. But, in reality, they weren’t the same at all. 

Mariposa were not trained to be whores. 

Polilla, however, most certainly _were_. 

“It would probably be more profitable, boss,” Alistair said. “Polilla are almost as rare and still highly desirable and some of the High Qui are a bit old fashioned about Mariposa anyway. They are reputedly already scandalized by the presence of the alien Mariposa entertainers in Arthos, but the authorities are unable to act since the Mariposa aren’t breaking Federal law. They’re emancipated and self-employed, so are free to act as they wish. It is probable the High Qui would be offended by you employing a Mariposa even just for the purposes of titillation and, more importantly, they could penalize you for doing it. It would be difficult to argue your role is as ‘Patron’ if you are paying an actual wage. But no-one has any issues over Polilla. Even the most traditional Qui won’t feel it’s sacrilegious to get a boner over a Polilla. Best of both worlds really.” 

Crowley pursed his lips, his mandibles dancing. “Any outfit?” he challenged Dean. 

“As long as the deal is ‘look but don’t touch’ and I wear a moth tattoo, I’ll even happily man the bar buck naked,” Dean retorted. “I’m not ashamed of my looks or my body and I’m not too proud to use them to my advantage. What I won’t do is ever allow another person to use me. That includes you. Those are my terms. Your choice. Take it, or leave it. I don’t really care either way.”

Crowley frowned at him for a long while. Then he chuckled. “Cheeky little minx, aren’t you? If I couldn’t see that tattoo under your skin, I would lay money on you wearing fake pheromones because you sure as shit are a poor excuse for a Submissive. Your behaviour and attitude are, frankly, offensive to any self-respecting Dominant. I find myself wanting to flip you over this desk and fuck the smirk off your face myself. If you can piss _me_ off this much, I think you’ll be great for business. You’re going to drive those uptight Qui assholes wild. Welcome onboard, Dey’hahn.”

The soft tap on his office door caused Castiel to sigh quietly and lay his stylus down before saying “Come in.” 

Then he sighed again, this time with genuine irritation, as the door opened and the identity of his visitor was revealed.

“Sorry to disturb you, Professor Ll’ell. I was hoping I might request a further extension for my latest assignment. As you can see, I’ve had somewhat of an accident.”

Castiel frowned at the student, removing his eyeglasses to purposefully increase the intensity of his coolly exasperated glare. 

Another professor might have felt some measure of concern or compassion over the fact the student was sporting a split lip and a distinctly bruised jaw and had stepped into the office with drooping wings and a pronounced limp. That hypothetical professor was not Castiel; who assumed, from much prior experience dealing with young Qui, that whatever disaster had befallen the student was inevitably the result of some idiotic drunken hi-japes rather than an unavoidable accident. Besides, his students had been given that particular assignment three weeks previously and the injuries were clearly too fresh to have had any bearing on whether or not the task had been completed on time.

“I make myself available for two hours after lectures, Jaytel, and two hours only. My lecture finished three hours ago. Which you would know, had you even bothered to attend it. That lecture was also, as you are aware, the final deadline for receipt of that particular completed assignment. Consequently, I have already lodged a failing grade against you with the administration. You are, frankly, as late to appeal that decision as you were late with the assignment itself.”

“But I…” 

“As I have already said, you are too late. There is no point in further discussion.” 

“You can’t fail me. Nobody cares about history. But I still need a minimum B- grade average to keep my scholarship. A fail in this will take me down to a ‘C’ overall.” The student’s alula feathers flared for a moment, and Castiel sensed the unmistakable waft of angry Dominant pheromones radiating from the youngster. A visual and sensory display that was immediately halted when he shot the young upstart a single flash of his blue eyes. 

He waited for the student to wilt under his gaze, for the boy’s pheromone signature to sour to bitter defeat, then said, “Perhaps you should have considered that fact before failing to complete your assignment on time. This discussion is over. Good day. Please close the door behind you as you leave.”

Castiel replaced his glasses and returned his attention to the assignments he was marking, not even waiting for the student to slink away in a huff before dismissing him entirely from his attention. He knew without doubt that the student would leave without further protest. 

No one ever argued with a Praevelen. 

It was both a blessing and a curse. 

Castiel’s glasses were an affectation. He had no need for visual correction but the antique frames suited his general shambolic appearance. They, like his badly knotted tie, ratty suit with its patched elbows and the ill-fitting rain cape he habitually wore, were simply part of his carefully chosen camouflage of ‘absent-minded professor’. They did very little to distract from his too tall frame and all too visible wings and definitely didn’t prevent the student body from holding him in considerable awe, but he found that apparently not taking his appearance too seriously allowed at least many of his peers to overlook his designation.

As, in a way, did his name, Ll’ell. None of his colleagues were fooled, obviously. No one had residence at the Arthosian University without learning – or being warned – that Castiel deliberately taught, and published, under the pseudonym of his paternal name instead of proudly using his family name, N’Vak. But his decision to use the name Ll’ell at least was appreciated as an attempt to be more relatable. 

Since the University in Arthos was actually officially named ‘The N’Vak University’, Castiel’s choice was accepted as evidence of modesty rather than rebellion. Well, by everyone except his actual family who knew the truth of why he did it.

Castiel, the current Professor of Antiquities, was a scion of the N’Vak clan, youngest son of the current Dean, Carolus N’Vak, and legally the many times great, great grandson of the founder, Ezekiel N’Vak. But since Castiel wasn’t actually related to any N’Vak other than his father and brothers, he preferred to eschew the name entirely. 

Ll’ell had been Carolus’s bachelor name, given up by him when he married Naomi N’Vak. Since Carolus had claimed his Mariposa before marrying Naomi, Rowena Ll’ell had consequently been the only other person named Ll’ell in the N’Vak dynasty. 

She had also happened to be Castiel’s mother. 

Not legally, obviously. 

Naomi N’Vak, as Carolus’s wife, was the legal ‘mother’ of all of his offspring. Even Rowena Ll’ell’s bastard son, Castiel. 

To say the resultant relationship between Naomi and Castiel was ‘frosty’, would be an understatement. 

Naomi, was a bitter, cold woman who lived in total resentment that Carolus had agreed to their arranged marriage to acquire the wealth and status of the N’Vak name, but that even several years after Rowena’s tragic death, his affection was still purely reserved for his beloved courtesan consort. 

Carolus‘s indifference to his wife spilled inevitability over to their children. The only child that Carolus doted on to an almost embarrassing extent was Castiel. He claimed his favoritism had nothing to do with the womb that had borne him and was simply because of Castiel’s designation. Perhaps that was true. Either way, he definitely had little time or affection for Castiel’s two non-designate older brothers – Naomi’s children - and so they, in turn, displayed very little affection for their youngest sibling. 

It made family gatherings far from congenial.

And so Castiel’s decision to take the professional name of Ll’ell, whilst seen as ‘modesty’ and an attempt to avoid accusations of nepotism by his colleagues, was considered to be completely scandalous by his entire family. Well, except for by Carolus, who found it both amusing and touching that Castiel insisted on rejecting tradition to honor the memory of his birth mother rather than his legal one.

Castiel sighed as his office door - shut for a reason - was tapped again. This time the visitor didn’t even wait for an acknowledgement or invitation before entering.

“You are, apparently, the most cold-hearted bastard ever to be given wings, Cassie,” Gabriel said, with a smirk, as he flounced in and collapsed dramatically in the chair opposite Castiel’s desk, his golden wings unfurling slightly behind him. “I have just had Jaytel G’zez in my office in floods of copious tears, announcing that his pointless little life is over because the wicked Professor Ll’ell is an inflexible, uncaring, dominating, asshole.”

“That’s the third assignment in a row he decided was too much effort,” Castiel said unapologetically. “Apparently ‘no-one cares about history’.”

“Owch. Though, gotta say he’s right. Nobody does. Well, except for you,” Gabriel chuckled. “But scholarships demand a pass in every mandatory subject. Even one as unpopular as yours. So you were right to fail him. Places at the University should be treated with more respect. I’m all for kicking the little bastard out and opening an opportunity for someone who might actually apply themselves to learning instead of using University attendance as an excuse to waste their time drinking and whoring.” 

“Exactly,” Castiel agreed. “It irritates me that Jaytel won such an opportunity but then chose to squander it. Arthos is filled with Qui who could only dream of being given such a potential advantage.” 

“Well, filled is somewhat of an exaggeration,” Gabriel countered. “I swear the Tsalun breed like Dey’hahn. They now outnumber us considerably in this City. Ooooh, speaking of Dey’hahns, have you been to Infernum recently?” 

“Public drinking with nubile, half-dressed alien servers attempting to crawl onto my lap for tips is not my preferred vice,” Castiel reminded him. “Particularly in places I am liable to bump into my students. Hard to maintain a reputation as a ‘cold hearted bastard’ in a place like Infernum.”

“Ahhh, but sometimes the scenery is worth the credits and the potential embarrassment,” Gabriel suggested, with a wink. “I recall you were quite interested in that server, Adriel, when we went there last month to celebrate Balthazar’s promotion.”

“A mere expression of aesthetic appreciation does not equate to ‘interest’,” Castiel growled. 

“I swear your hand at least twitched towards your wallet when he flirted with you.”

“You remember the incident incorrectly, probably due to your state of inebriation that evening,” Castiel replied coolly. “I assure you, I have never paid for companionship, nor even been tempted to do so.” 

Gabriel snorted. “Fair point. I don’t imagine you have. But not all of us are as obviously blessed as you, Cassie. It’s so fucking unfair. Did you know there’s a company currently trying to license a trial of an actual genetic remapping procedure? It’s a load of nonsense right now but, one of these days, for enough credits, it is going to be possible to actually change someone’s designation to Praevalen.” 

“You’re the biology professor, not me, so I’ll accept the hypothesis is scientifically sound. But I sincerely doubt they will ever be successful in making it a reality. I can see it being possible for people to look like Prae but it’s not just an appearance issue, is it?”

Gabriel pouted. “Let me at least hold onto the fantasy. I have this dream of waking up one day with black wings, twelve more inches of height and the ability to just flash my baby blues at someone to make them throw themselves at my feet.”

Castiel threw his head back and laughed. “That’s definitely a fantasy, Gabe. I’ll allow that I was born with certain physical advantages but look at me. I’m thirty-two years old, still single, and I can’t even remember the last time I took someone to my bed.”

“Which is both a crying shame and a crime against nature,” Gabriel announced. “You’re just too damned picky, is all. There isn’t a High Qui family that hasn’t tried to throw their offspring in your direction. How many arranged marriages have you turned down so far? Bet you can’t even remember. Even your father has given up on you, hasn’t he?”

“He’s still a bit irritated about the Mariposa thing,” Castiel admitted. “I do feel bad about that. I know he was just trying to give me a taste of the happiness he shared with my mother. He meant well. I wasn’t ungrateful.” 

“And yet peculiarly forgetful,” Gabriel said significantly.

Castiel shrugged. “Rowena was Qui. My father’s acquisition of his concubine was a totally different situation. Trust me, biological Submissive or not, my mother was a true Subplex. A fiery, self-assured queen who never ceased to make my father work for her submission. Sadly, she was the last of her breed, Gabriel.”

“Because there simply aren’t any Qui Mariposa in our generation,” Gabriel agreed sadly. 

“Which is why those of our generation should take this opportunity to finally end such barbarism for good,” Castiel stated firmly. “My father doesn’t understand because he isn’t Prae. Besides, he was probably the only Qui in centuries to actually find genuine happiness with his Mariposa and even _he_ wasn’t permitted to actually marry her. The whole tradition has become so corrupted over the millennia that no one even remembers why it was started in the first place. And definitely no one wants to accept how far the idea has been warped out of all recognition from its original concept. In the words of you and Jaytel, ‘no one cares about history’.” 

“It’s never easy to swim against the tide, Cassie. Whilst I don’t doubt the authenticity of your research, I can see why the establishment were terrified by the paper you anonymously published on Praevelen/Subplex synergy. Your conclusions didn’t just challenge the status of Mariposa but threw doubt on the entire accepted history of the initial reasons for the Federal Alliance. Your theories put you in dangerous waters, Castiel, and it doesn’t take an advanced degree to put two and two together and realize that the most likely identity of the whistleblower is our very own revered Professor of Antiquities.” 

“Were it not for the risk to my father’s reputation, I would have proudly published under my name and accepted the consequences anyway,” Castiel said, with a frown. “The failure of the Qui, and the other Old Races, to accept the truth of our fundamental nature will ring our death knell. My mother was one of only five Qui Mariposa in recent times and she was the last to be born. The last Subplex Qui to be born. Just as I am the last, and now only, Praevalen. If the Gods truly exist, surely that fact alone is proof that we have turned so far from what was meant to be that we are now cursed to die out altogether as a species; impotent and defanged.” 

“Unless the genetic remapping idea eventually works,” Gabriel pointed out. 

Castiel sneered. “Since no-one accepts what a Praevalen truly is, any attempt to duplicate one is doomed to failure. Even if they are nominally successful, Qui scientists will end up creating people who simply look like Prae but don’t behave like them. They might use their additional height and strength to physically enforce dominance, but the instincts of Praevalen were never intended to be used negatively. Prae dominance was designed purely for clan protection. The instinctive Praevelen characteristics were designed to be the natural beneficial traits of good leaders, Gabe. Millennia of suppressing Prae entirely by deliberately removing the existence of true Subplex is the reason our race, and others, are dying.”

“Modernity will destroy all races eventually,” Gabriel agreed. “Face it, my friend. If you are right, and to be honest I believe you are, the best you will ever achieve by convincing people of that fact is the dissolution of the Mariposa tradition if only because there will be no more genuine Praevalen to drive the fear you claim created the tradition in the first place. “

“I know,” Castiel agreed heavily. “And if I thought ending my own life prematurely would bring the whole sorry situation to a swifter conclusion, I would act appropriately. But we are centuries beyond any chance of the Mariposa tradition coming to a natural cessation. It is now nothing more than a corrupt tool by which unscrupulous people can legally steal the most desirable children from their parents and then train them to be unfailingly submissive toys for anyone with the money and power to own them. It is an abomination.” 

“Because the last thing a genuine Praevalen wants, according to you, is a trained Submissive,” Gabriel replied. “The problem though is that you can’t honestly claim a lack of bias in your research, can you? Has it not occurred to you that your entire argument is based upon your own personal perception of how you feel about the situation? The fact that you loathe the idea of being saddled with a modern Mariposa doesn’t necessarily prove that another Prae, if they existed, would feel the same way. A theory can’t be based on the experiences of a single test subject.” 

“I’ll allow that,” Castiel agreed wryly. “But historical research supports my position absolutely. I haven’t picked and chosen only the facts that support my own beliefs. I haven’t discovered a single fact that conflicts with my original hypothesis. Praevalen have always had an instinctive urge to win submission from a natural Subplex. To earn it. Being handed it on a plate is a form of castration. A way to suppress and control the Prae by denying them the opportunity to flex their true natures. Not, I suspect, because anyone actually cares about whether or not a Praevalen mates happily. The motivation is far subtler and more insidious than that. If the historical records are accurate, the true strength of a Praevalen remains inaccessible, unless unlocked by a truly synergic Prae/sub connection.” 

Gabriel shuffled awkwardly. “You see, it’s that kind of thing that makes people nervous, Cassie. It’s all very well and good, people telling folktales and legends about the days when Praevalen were mythical demi-gods with superpowers, but nobody really wants that myth to be proven to be reality.”

“Which is exactly my point. I have little or no interest in becoming living proof that the old legends were based on reality. I don’t want to ‘unlock my potential’. As the last Qui Praevalen I’m already considered a sufficient oddity. I don’t need to add mystical ‘superpowers’ to the list. But I can’t prevent my instinctive revulsion of the idea of mating a preprogrammed Submissive and I most certainly have no interest in marrying a non-designate Qui. So I prefer to view sex as something to be indulged in on occasion but as nothing more than the scratching of an itch. I will never mate nor marry, Gabriel. That I have accepted. 

“You don’t have to mate or marry,” Gabriel sighed. “I’m just suggesting you at least find yourself a regular bedwarmer. It’s completely unnatural for any Qui, particularly a Praevalen, to live as a virtual celibate. Just accept there are no Subplex to be had. Find yourself a pretty little biological Submissive to regularly fuck, and be done with it.” 

Castiel frowned repressively. “I’m as vulnerable as any Dom to the psychological damage of a broken bond, so I have no intention of tempting fate by bedding a biological Sub. What if i accidentally bond with them whilst in pursuit of mere sexual gratification? Besides, sex alone does not slake the needs of a Praevalen and, before you suggest it, neither does the fake submission of a trained whore or that of any money-grabbing little guttersnipe who would leap into my bed just to access the N’Vak fortune. All Praevalen instinctively yearn to mate a Subplex, but the relationship should be symbiotic, not exploitative. That’s the real problem, Gabe. A Subplex wasn’t supposed to be a sexual conquest. The Sub/Prae relationship didn’t even have to be sexual. There are historical records of siblings forming a fully successful platonic bond. It was always supposed to be a compliment. A perfect, synergic connection. It didn’t require a mate and it definitely didn’t involve coercion. It certainly can’t be achieved with a slave. 

“And any doubt that this current situation was not deliberately manufactured is totally negated by the laws that specifically state that actual ‘marriage’ to a Mariposa is a legal impossibility. That law, and others that deliberately set Mariposa to be lesser beings, mean that no truly equal relationship is possible at all. And since every individual born pure Subplex is caught within the web of genetic testing and trained to be Mariposa and even those suspected of having nearly perfect Subplex characteristics are trained to be Polilla, the Federal authorities have deliberately created a scenario in which a Praevalen cannot ever find a suitable bedfellow, let alone a mate.”

“Which neatly brings me back to Infernum,” Gabriel said smoothly. “Crowley’s got a new hire. A stunning Polilla. Genetically human. He’s an actual Earther apparently. And, although as a rule I’ve honestly never really seen the appeal of humans, this particular Polilla is, honestly, the most gorgeous thing I have ever laid eyes on.”

Castiel flinched slightly at the mention of Earth. “I didn’t think Infernum’s license covered the hiring of Polilla.”

“That’s just the thing,” Gabriel said. “The boy isn’t a server. Believe it or not, he’s just working the bar like a non-designate. The little fucker just stands there, pouring drinks, practically naked, looking like sex on legs, and nobody is allowed to touch him at all. I thought it was all some kind of trick at first, a hologram or something, because Crowley just isn’t the type to ignore the kind of potential profit that can be earned with a Polilla. License or not. But then a few of the students got a little drunk last night and one of them – guess which one - decided to fly over the bar counter to ‘introduce himself’. No word of a lie, Cassie, the Polilla just stood there, not ducking or flinching, until the kid was almost in his face. Then he swung his fist and punched the drunken idiot right back the way he’d come. It was hysterical.”

Castiel blinked with astonishment for several long seconds. “Then perhaps the bartender only looks like a Polilla,” he suggested eventually. “Tattoos can be faked. Polilla may lack the fine education granted to Mariposa, and may be more sexually promiscuous, but both are always invariably totally submissive in the face of aggressive sexual interest. It’s not simply a matter of their biological designation. It’s the result of the training they undergo which, frankly, is nothing short of deliberate brainwashing. Both Mariposa and Polilla are selected in the first place because genetic testing confirms their natural designation to be Subplex. The only distinction between them before their training is that a Polilla is slightly less naturally compatible with a Praevalen. Both, however, are completely ruined by their formal training. Whatever fire may have resided in their souls is deliberately totally quenched long before they reach Maturation. So the boy must be a fake.” 

“That was naturally my own original suspicion,” Gabriel agreed, “but I questioned Crowley about it and he said he’d never break the law by allowing that kind of blatant false advertising by one of his employees. He also said it was a common misconception that young-world Mariposa and Polilla are as interchangeable as they traditionally are in our world. He claims young-world Polilla are trained to be submissive in the bedroom but since actually getting them there usually takes a pile of credits, it makes sense that they retain more ability than a Mariposa to say ‘no’. He acknowledged that saying ‘no’ didn’t _usually_ involve the use of fists and that the boy is remarkably strange in his behaviour but he invited me to return with a genetic scanner to confirm the boy registers as a genuine Subplex.” 

“Maybe he doesn’t expect you to call his bluff,” Castiel suggested.

“I already have,” Gabriel countered. “I went there this lunchtime and ran a scan on the Polilla. He’s not a fake. The only surprising thing about the result was that the kid wasn’t judged worthy of being trained as a Mariposa. The Earthers must have set the bar exceptionally high, because according to my scanner he reads only fractionally lower than 100% Subplex and even that could just be down to a calibration issue with my scanner.”

Stunned, Castiel retreated into the surety of facts. “The newest members of the Federal Alliance tend to demonstrate far less genetic corruption than older races. I believe the Earthers have over 300 registered Mariposa and almost twice as many Polilla. With that kind of wealth at their disposal, I suppose they have the leisure to be considerably more particular about what they consider ‘purity’,” he suggested. “Perhaps that is why this Polilla has come to Tsaluna. On his home world he is not considered ‘exceptional’. On an old world such as ours, he can presumably command a far higher price for his attention. Perhaps you are right that the Earthers deliberately allow Polilla the ability to negotiate a little more… enthusiastically… for recompense. Though it is beyond comprehension that any biological Submissive of any ranking could possibly strike a Dominant in anger. Is it possible the blow was accidental?”

“Only if a round-house punch to the jaw can be done by accident,” Gabriel snickered. “Besides, perhaps credits are not what drives him. He certainly has appeared impervious to any financial inducements for his company. Perhaps he is looking for something else entirely.” 

“What something else?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Nobody has figured it out yet. The Polilla’s been on planet for over a week now and, despite considerable efforts to seduce him, no-one has even seen first-base on the distant horizon. Just about every Qui that’s gone to Infernum over the last week has either tried to buy him or charm him, or both. All he does is pour their drinks and sneer openly at their efforts. The ruder and more dismissive he is, the more he drives people crazy. Jaytel being a case in point. Crowley is laughing all the way to the bank because the servers are benefiting from the frustration of the customers and, apparently, he is only paying the kid minimum to stand there and handle all the abuse. Stands to reason the Polilla is looking for _something_. He’d hardly be putting himself on display like that for minimum wage if he wasn’t open to offers. So the question has to be what offer is he looking for?” 

“Perhaps he is simply just trying to earn an honest living,” Castiel suggested mildly. “You know, like an actual _real_ person.”

“Or perhaps he’s a ‘fiery, self-assured queen’ like your mother,” Gabriel suggested slyly. “Maybe what he’s actually looking for is a Praevalen.”

“Then he’s come to the wrong planet,” Castiel replied dryly.

“No, seriously Cassie, all the time I’ve known you all you’ve done is bemoan the fact it’s impossible for you to find a suitable mate because anyone born with a natural propensity to be a genuine Subplex has been irrevocably tainted, their natural nature perverted into an obscene parody of itself. Then last night I see a trained Polilla knock out a full-grown Qui biological Dominant just for daring to touch him and all I can think is he might be your mythical unicorn.” 

Surprisingly, the worst part of working for Crowley wasn’t the job itself. 

Dean had fully expected to loathe working behind the bar, particularly when he’d first seen the outfit Crowley had deemed suitable for him to wear. But, really, once he’d accepted the necessity of compliance, it hadn’t turned out to be even fractionally as objectionable as he’d first imagined.

For one thing, the outfit wasn’t even half as revealing as he’d expected it to be. What the Tsalunniqui obviously considered risqué turned out to be nothing compared to the clothing that was considered usual for human Mariposa to wear; the clothing that the Academy had prepared him to expect to wear. Most of the Young World owners of Mariposa delighted in parading them in public wearing so little that modesty was a forgotten concept. Some titleholders even demanded full nudity both in private and public. So the costume Crowley had provided, whilst somewhat disquieting after living for almost seven years wearing normal clothing, hadn’t truly phased him at all. He had been trained for years to bare his flesh without a flinch and a mere few years of nominal freedom hadn’t erased that hard-learned instinctive acceptance. 

So, the almost translucent fabric, deliberately woven to emulate delicate moth wings, draped to waterfall over a minimal harness of leather and metal that barely covered his groin before criss crossing over his bare chest, whilst more appropriate for the cover of a racy sci-fi comic than for tending a bar, was not actually offensive to him. 

More importantly though, Dean found to his surprise that he didn’t mind being the recipient of overt lustful glances. In some ways it was even empowering. He felt as though it ought to bother him more than it actually did. As though it was a sign of how badly the Academy had screwed with his mind that he actually enjoyed being perceived as being irresistibly beautiful. Except he didn’t think it was totally fair to condemn himself for feeling some level of satisfaction at being seen as desirable. Was it really that different from any non-designate person feeling pleased that their appearance was met with universal approval? And, truthfully, being publicly overtly lusted after wasn’t something his training had prepared him for anyway. That bizarre dichotomy caused by the necessity to be ‘polite’ to a Mariposa meant that on Earth, even were he to stand in the midst of a crowded room stark naked it would be considered ‘rude’ to glance his way with more than the idle appreciation that might be offered any other aesthetically pleasing object.

So, in a peculiar way, it was almost nice to be looked at as a Polilla. With honest appreciation of him as an actual person, albeit a person considered little more than a living sex toy.

Perhaps, he reasoned, the difference was that Crowley was totally (and somewhat unexpectedly) true to his word about not expecting Dean to pretend to reciprocate the attraction of the customers. The reason, he decided, that being a sex object in Infernum was not particularly objectionable to him was that no one questioned his right to say ‘no’. Even if that ‘no’ was occasionally done with his fists. It was that difference, perhaps, that changed the lust-filled glances of the customers into something empowering rather than demeaning. 

The worst part of the job, then, was neither the customers nor the costume. It was his interaction with most of the other staff. 

Despite his care not to suggest, either by word or deed, that he judged the behavior of the servers to be ‘distasteful’, the very fact he refused to behave the same way himself was taken as an unspoken criticism. It set him apart from them and automatically implied some level of judgment that, quite honestly, didn’t exist. In some ways he actually envied their ability to blithely exploit the customers’ lust for their own benefit; the way they gleefully added up their tips at the end of a shift, joking together and mocking their ‘marks’ whilst pocketing their share of the booty with shameless satisfaction. Dean shared their attitude that if anyone should feel ashamed of their behavior it was the customers, not the servers. Unfortunately, any attempt by himself to say so was inevitably perceived as condescension in view of his own strict ‘no-touch’ policy. 

Which was problematic considering his job involved constant interaction with the servers as he replenished their trays with drink orders.

He deliberately didn’t rise to any of the snide comments aimed in his direction and purposefully responded to any aggressive posturing on their part with nothing more than a friendly smile.

His efforts were wasted on most of them. The majority ignored his personable, deliberately non-confrontational, attitude and continued to exclude him from their clique of friendship, even though all of the servers soon began to benefit financially from his presence. 

However, as the second week had gone on, at least a few of them had begun to thaw towards him and, by the time he had been there a full fortnight, a couple of the more pragmatic servers had begun to behave in a civil way towards him and one, in particular, had even begun to treat him with a seemingly genuine, if sarcastic, friendliness.

Meg was a Deltazoid from Falterine, a planet several hundred light years inside the Horsehead Nebula. She was humanoid in appearance, save for her prehensile tail, sharp teeth and the cap of soft, short downy fur that covered her head in place of hair. Since she wore an outfit not dissimilar to his own, it was obvious that the short fur covered a large proportion of her lower body too, in a way reminiscent of a satyr. 

He didn’t mistake her friendliness for an offer of trust or affection. Meg was a creature of sharp edges and biting humor. But he recognized himself in her confident mockery, in her cocky comments and sly distrustful glances, saw her sneering smile for the armor plating that it was. Meg, for all her attitude of world-weary confidence, was a wounded soul. A dog that bit from fear rather than inmate meanness. She was, in many ways, a kindred spirit and he suspected it was her ability to sense their mutual invisible scars that caused her to judge him more kindly than her peers.

Whatever the reason for her decision to treat him as a confidante rather than a rival, he was grateful. Primarily because he was welcoming of her insistence, towards the end of the second week, that they always walked ‘home’ together between the bar and the ramshackle boarding house several streets away that Crowley provided for his workers. He had soon understood why the ‘staff entrance’ of Infernum was a battered door secreted in a dimly lit alley far to the rear of the vast otherwise imposingly spotless building. What had initially seemed to be a way for Crowley to disparage his workers by denying them the right to enter and leave the building through the spectacular public entrances was, in practice, a deliberate attempt to protect them from the drunken customers who would otherwise inevitably lie in wait for their exit. 

The ability to slip in and out of the ‘secret’ back door was probably the only reason none of Crowley’s workers had ever been found dead in a ditch somewhere. Even so, leaving the bar in the middle of the night into the deserted narrow alleys behind Infernum still felt uncomfortable and dangerous. Dean found himself grateful for the presence of Meg’s sharp teeth at his side, even if they were inevitably accompanied by her equally sharp tongue.

“Soooo,’ she purred, her dark eyes flashing with reflected moonlight as they made their way over the rough cobbles that paved the secret maze of alleyways that snaked between buildings that looked so impressive from the front and yet were linked together by almost slum-like rears. “What’s with that Qui who looks like he wants to either bone you or stab you through the heart but hasn’t yet made his mind up which one to go through with?”

Dean flushed uncomfortably, his cheeks burning despite the chill of the early morning. Arthos was in a temperate climate but the clear skies that made days so pleasant meant that the temperature plummeted dramatically at night. “He’s just some stupid Professor type who claims he has a fascination over the difference between Earthers and Qui. Keeps wanting to scan me again because he’s apparently ‘recalibrated his scanner’ but, thankfully, Crowley told him to take a hike.” 

“Not him,” Meg snorted rudely. “I know _exactly_ the kind of scientific probing Gabriel would probably like to do to you but, High Qui or not, his family are politically inconsequential. He has no private income and depends utterly on his University salary. So he doesn’t even have enough money to interest me in more than the odd bit of rough and tumble. Shame, really, because he’s fun in the sheets. But funny doesn’t pay the rent, does it?”

“You seem to know a lot about him,” Dean pointed out.

She shrugged. “I can’t keep doing this shit forever. Looks fade, Dey’hahn. I need to hook a fish before the bait spoils. But I don’t intend to end up living in some crappy halls of residence with an impoverished Professor, regardless of how much he makes me laugh. I want stability. Real money. I never want to worry about where my next meal is coming from.”

Dean nodded his understanding. Meg had inevitably experienced genuine hunger in her past. Everyone knew that Falterine’s sun was dying. The few Deltazoid that had managed to escape their doomed planet were scattered around the Federal Alliance, seen as impoverished unwelcome asylum seekers by most and subject to exploitation even if they were lucky enough to find any work at all. Few of the Delts were as comely in appearance as Meg. He couldn’t blame her for using her unusually pretty face in an attempt to secure her future.

“Anyway, I’m not talking about Gabriel. I’m talking about the other one. The Praevalen,” Meg continued.

“The what?” Dean spluttered, halting in his tracks, his eyes wide with shock. 

Meg frowned at him. “You’re a Polilla. You must know what a Praevalen is,” she said.

“Of course I do,” Dean said, still shaking his head in confusion. “But now I don’t understand who you’re talking about.” He had only mentioned Gabriel to prevaricate, because he had been sure she’d really been referring to the gorgeous, huge, painfully shy Qui with the weird black wings and the peculiar eye glasses. The one who ducked his head every time Dean looked in his direction. The one who looked like a living trope of an absent-minded professor. The one who had sat in his scruffy clothing, for hour after hour every evening for the last five days, nursing a single drink, completely ignoring all of the servers – except for invariably accepting his single beverage with a soft, grateful smile to his server rather than a leering grope. Something that Dean had noted with pleasant surprise - and then simply, seemingly, taking advantage of Infernum’s utilities to grade stack after stack of student papers. Dean had found his eyes drawn repeatedly to the solitary man, imagining him to be a truly impoverished Professor if he was forced to work in such a noisy environment simply to avoid heating and lighting his own accommodation.

“Mr. Tall, dark and broody,” she snickered. “You can’t tell me you honestly think that guy has been genuinely just sitting in the corner grading papers every night for the last week. I swear, for all he acts as though he doesn’t even see you, every time you turn your back he is staring at you, Dey’hahn. Completely fascinated. Just eating you up with those sharp blue eyes. I just can’t figure out whether he is lusting over you or feeling offended by your presence. Actually, now I think about it, if anything he just looks totally confused by the fact you exist at all.”

And Dean knew exactly who she was referring to although it made no sense whatsoever.

“What makes you think he’s a Prae?”

Meg shrugged. “Well, I could be wrong,” she admitted. “But the black wings are a bit of a giveaway.”

Dean blinked in surprise. “Several Qui I’ve seen have weird wing colors. Sure, they’re predominantly white, but I’ve seen brown and gold and tawny ones too. Your friend Gabriel has gold wings, doesn’t he? What’s so special about black?”

Meg shrugged again. “Dunno, but I heard it somewhere or other. That, in Qui, black wings and blue eyes are the mark of a Praevalen. Plus he’s the tallest Qui I’ve ever seen. Must be nearly seven feet tall. At least he would be if he ever sat up straight instead of hunching over his paperwork.”

Dean shook his head in denial. “He’s non-designate,” he stated firmly. “He’s not even Dom, let alone a Prae. He’s more like a big fluffy chicken than a hawk.”

“A chicken,” Meg snorted.

“You know what I mean. The poor guy is so shy he can’t even make eye-contact. I bet if I left the bar area and walked over to him, he’d squawk in panic and run out the front door. Shame really. I think he’s the only Qui I’ve seen so far who wasn’t a big-headed, overbearing dick. I probably wouldn’t even mind him offering to buy me a shot. Not that I can imagine him being able to afford to, though. He’s got actual mending patches on his suit jacket.”

“Ooooh,” she sighed dreamily. “You like him.”

“I don’t ‘like’ him. I’ve never even spoken to him. I just like the way he behaves. The way he treats you servers with respect,” Dean argued. “It’s a refreshing change.”

“And the fact he’s gorgeous helps,” she suggested slyly.

“He is?” Dean asked, with an airy shrug. “I hadn’t noticed. He sits too far from the bar for me to have seen him clearly.”

“And yet you’ve noticed his very subtle elbow patches. You, Dey’hahn, are a lying, liar who lies,” she announced smugly.

Dean blushed again. “Anyway, the point is he can’t possibly be Prae. I’ve met enough biological Doms in my time to spot that kind of arrogant asshole a mile off.”

“So, if you like him and he isn’t a Praevalen, and I admit I might have been totally mistaken about the wing color thing, then why don’t you put him out of his misery and go over to talk to him?” she asked.

“Number one, because I’d probably start a riot if I left the bar area,” Dean admitted ruefully. “Plus I’m pretty sure Crowley would have my ass if I didn’t sell my time in exchange for a shot and I honestly can’t imagine the guy has a spare fifteen credits. And, finally, because he’s non-designate and I don’t want to be an asshole. No point him offering me what I want, if he can’t offer me what I _need_. Better to forget the whole thing altogether.”

It was Meg’s turn to stop walking and turn to him in shock. “Hang on, you’re saying you don’t want a Dom but that you aren’t interested in Chicken-boy because he’s _not_ a Dom?”

“Don’t call him that,” Dean frowned.

“You’re the one who mentioned chickens,” she pointed out. “But, seriously, Dey’hahn, you’re making no sense. How are you ever going to escape this life if you don’t hook yourself a mate? A guy doesn’t need to be a Dom to give you what you need. There’s plenty of non-designates who have pretty dommish dicks. Gabriel, for instance. Trust me, he is a seriously good fuck,” she told him solemnly. “I have this secret hope he marries into money and then I’d be more than happy to become his bonded-concubine.”

“You identify as Submissive?” he asked her, cautiously surprised. Being the bonded-concubine of a married bondmaster had legal weight that would guarantee her permanent security. If a bondmaster died, his family (despite it being almost inevitably his wife’s family) would be obliged to financially support his bonded-concubine forever. It was one of the Federation’s legal peculiarities necessarily established to allow the continuing tradition of formal arranged marriages to preserve dynastic wealth, whilst allowing for people to still choose their preferred bed partners.

“I’m a Delt,” she reminded him, a little bitterly. “My gender and designation are totally fluid depending on whatever offer is on the table. But I happily play sub for Gabriel’s little dommish fantasies whenever he has a little cash to burn. I just wish he had the means to offer me some permanent security. I never thought I’d ever want a collar, but I’d wear _his_ collar and be happy.” 

Dean smiled at her sadly. “Then I too hope that he marries well,” he agreed. He decided it was pointless and dangerous (and potentially hurtful) for him to mention his own plan for escaping ‘this life’. In just four more weeks, he had reason to hope that Charlie’s wife would help him enact a far better plan than binding himself into even as innocuous a position as ‘bonded-concubine’. 

He wasn’t even sure whether a Mariposa was even legally allowed to enter that kind of agreement anyway. He doubted it. Bonded-concubines just ‘played’ at submission. They wore a collar instead of a marriage ring and delighted in acting the role of a Submissive. But it was never more than an elaborate sex-game between consenting equals. Not to mention, a legal excuse for a man to keep a permanent mistress.

But he wished the little, sharp-edged Delt some genuine happiness. No one deserved to be in her position, stuck on an alien world having to sell her body just to put food in her belly. It seemed that the struggles they both faced were mutual, even if their opportunities to escape their lives varied. At a basic level, he and Meg had even far more in common than he’d previously realized. 

“Seven days now,” Gabriel griped, as he sat with Castiel in the University canteen and looked morosely at the offerings on his own tray. He had been distracted by a student having an existential crisis over a research project and had consequently arrived far too late to acquire a decent dessert. Unlike the piece of rich layer-cake sitting on Castiel’s tray, all Gabriel had managed to grab was a sad looking fruit-plate. “It’s been a whole week, Cassie, and you still haven’t even spoken to him. I don’t see how you possibly even have any more papers to pretend to mark.” 

Castiel stared at him for a moment, then silently swapped their desserts before saying, “I’ve moved on to doing personal study instead. I’m working my way through Androniel’s ancient treatise on the gene sequence relating to Subplex traits. There has to be something to support the existence of a Subplex like Dey’hahn.” His professional tone softened slightly as he spoke the name. “Something I have somehow missed in my previous research. Some explanation for his peculiar behavior.”

“By peculiar, you are referring to the fact he invariably responds like a non-designate when some drunken asshole gets in his face?” Gabriel suggested dryly. 

“Exactly,” Castiel replied, either ignoring or missing Gabriel’s sarcasm. “We already know certain genes and chromosomes define personality traits and that in Subplex and Praevalen those genetic traits are more akin to compulsions rather than simple correlations like they are in non-designates such as Submissives or Dominants.”

Gabriel frowned. “It’s a little harsh to call them non-designate simply because they aren’t Subplex or Praevalen. True biological Submissives and Dominants evidence the same pheromone emissions, albeit to a lesser degree, so it is totally valid to consider those identities fixed designations. Surely non-designate is only a valid term for the average individual who registers as Null, regardless of personal sexual preferences.”

“It’s a matter of semantics, not judgment, Gabriel. Historically, the term non-designate always referred to anyone who was neither Sub nor Prae. The fact that it has become acceptable in modern times to consider all fixed non-elective sexual variations to be legal ‘designations’ does not negate the fact that in reality there is an actual, distinct genetic difference that is only evidenced in genuine Subplex and Praevalen. Perhaps we should coin the phrase ‘semi-designate’ to cover biologically driven Submissives and Dominants to distinguish them from Null people who simply choose to identify in those ways.”

Gabriel blew out a breath. “It’s a mess. I think the failure to clearly define all of the different degrees and modes of designation comes down to a reluctance to accept the truth that everyone is not born equal. Many nulls, like myself, so clearly identify as Dom that we resent the fact we don’t have the ability to transmit Dominant pheromones. So all of our modern laws already attempt to negate the difference between us and biological Dominants, let alone the differences between Dominants and Praevalen. Just as the Mariposa and Polilla training works to negate the difference between Subplex and Submissives, I suppose.”

“I wasn’t making a political point,” Castiel said. “My irritation with the confusion caused by mislabelling designations relates primarily to the genetic significance of the fact that the specific chromosomes that cause true Subplex characteristics are apparently different from those that influence biological Submissive ones. Significantly, Androniel points out that the genes related to Subplex behavior are clustered in the same regions as genes linked to certain psychiatric disorders. Which naturally begs the question, what if Dey’hahn’s odd behavior is merely evidence of a psychiatric disturbance?”

“Really? You’re actually going with that? I find you the one formally trained Submissive in the Universe who still evidences fiery self-respect and your response is he must be insane?” Gabriel demanded, blinking in frustrated astonishment.

Castiel picked at a piece of invisible lint on his pants for a moment before finally looking up and meeting his friend’s incredulous gaze. The look of unmistakable misery in Castiel’s eyes quenched Gabriel’s irritation instantly. “I can’t afford to just believe in the possibility of him,” he explained. “I think it might destroy me if I allow myself to hope he is for real and then discover that he’s simply ill.”

“Are _you_ insane?” Gabriel asked him, pointedly.

“What?” Castiel blinked slowly.

“Seems to me you’ve successfully spent most of your life suppressing many of the personality traits of your own genetic designation, Cassie. Why are you so special? Why do you assume Dey’hahn is less able than you to control his base nature? Seems a bit condescending to me.”

“Well, quite apart from the fact I honestly believe that Praevalen aren’t supposed to act like Doms but are actually _supposed_ to be pacifistic unless acting in defence of the vulnerable, I suspect it’s probably because I wasn’t sold as a child by my parents like an unwanted pet. Because I didn’t spend six of my formative years having it drilled into my head 24/7 that my only worth and purpose is in my designation,” Castiel spat. “This isn’t so much about Dey’hahn’s genetics, it’s about the deliberately destructive brainwashing he received when being trained as a Polilla. Gods only help him if he’d received Mariposa training, but even the Polilla schooling should have left him incapable of physically demonstrating any sense of self-worth. Why is this one Polilla able to overcome his inhumane upbringing when no other Subplex has ever successfully done so before? My mother was unique. Her birth on a remote estate enabled her parents to avoid her being tested at all until she was sixteen. Despite the best efforts of the authorities, it was then too late for her to be ‘ruined’ like a typical Subplex. She was living proof to me that a Mariposa raised to respect themselves is as capable of anyone else to demonstrate an independent spirit, but Dey’hahn was not raised that way. So what is the source of his fire?” 

“Fair enough points, and yet you are looking for the answer in his genes anyway,” Gabriel pointed out.

“Because under the circumstances, sadly, the most likely source of the fire is mental illness.”

“Okaaaay,” Gabriel agreed. “So we’re assuming the worst case scenario from the get go, huh? Or, I dunno, alternatively, you could pretend to be a real scholar and actually seek the answer directly from the source by asking him his opinion on why he is so different.”

Castiel looked startled for a moment, then a faint flush appeared high on his cheekbones. “I think that would be an inappropriate conversation to conduct in such a setting as Infernum. If such a discourse becomes a necessity, I will send him an official invitation via his employer to attend the University for a formal interview.”

“Better check your research budget,” Gabriel snickered. “Crowley will see that as nothing more than you requesting to hire his Polilla for a few hours to conduct ‘private’ research.”

“I will ignore the implication of your comment. The real truth, anyway, is that I am so furious with the formal training of both Mariposa and Polilla that I don’t believe I could conduct an unbiased scientific interview in any casual setting. I would never forgive myself if my questioning caused him fear. I am certain that the emotional impact of his words would bring out those aspects of myself that would most probably cause him distress.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean you think you might go full-blown Praevalen and scare half the city with your righteous rage?”

“It is a distinct possibility,” Castiel admitted, slightly sheepishly. “I find his very existence drives me to feel protective instincts that threaten to overwhelm me. And that is entirely separate from the other emotions he inspires.”

“You fancy him,” Gabriel suggested.

“That is an impossibly frivolous word to describe the way I feel when I see him, Gabriel. I did not believe it was possible to simply look at someone and feel as though my whole world had abruptly tilted on an angle. It is as though everything I see, do or say now is done through a filter named Dey’hahn. Simply seeing him has undone me completely. I cannot envisage my life henceforth without him in it, even if he forever remains only as a near illusion in the periphery of my vision. I cannot even look at him directly for fearing my eyes will burn him alive.” 

“I don’t think even Praevalen have that particular ability,” Gabriel chuckled. Then, seeing the way Castiel glared at him in response, he winced and said, “or maybe they do. Stop with the smitey eyes for a moment and just listen to me, okay? I do understand you’re feeling overwhelmed. I even agree that approaching him directly in the club might be inadvisable if you aren’t sure you can be in complete control of yourself. I imagine Dey’hahn has had years of fending off unwelcome advances and the last thing you need to do is appear in any way similar to the other assholes who visit Infernum.”

Castiel growled in response, his eyes literally flashing as though lit by an inner flame.

Gabriel flinched and recoiled slightly. “Damn, Cassie. I’m honestly starting to believe in the myths about Praevalen. I could swear your eyes just went bioluminescent for a moment. If just talking about Dey’hahn has this effect on you, then maybe it’s possible that the two of you are completely genetically compatible and that you are reacting to him on some subconscious level.”

“I believe you may be right,” Castiel agreed heavily. “Which is why it’s even more important that I keep my distance from him. I cannot even begin to imagine how intimidating it would feel for him to be confronted by a total stranger such as myself radiating pheromones that will urgently and forcefully claim that he is possibly my ideal mate. Besides which, for me to do so would place expectation on him. It would put him in the position of having to either accept or refuse my interest and, worst of all, refusal may not even be possible for him. 

“If he truly is still Subplex. If, somehow, this is not some form of mental aberration and he truly has survived his ‘education’ with his soul still intact, then the historical records suggest my Praevalen nature might call to him in a similar way. What if the instinct to respond to my pheromones is so strong that I inadvertently become the weapon that finally shatters whatever freewill he has miraculously retained?”

“Woah,” Gabriel breathed. “You think that’s a genuine possibility?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “Under normal circumstances I do not believe so. But since I am the only Praevalen on this planet, it stands to reason that his reaction to me might be artificially inflated by his instinctual perception of me as his only option. I certainly suspect my own extreme reaction to him may be the same.”

“Desert island syndrome, huh?” Gabriel snorted. “You think you’re going to be drawn to each other simply by an instinctual recognition that you both are the last of your breed?” 

“Something like that,” Castiel agreed.

“Then it is extremely fortunate that your best friend is the Arthosian Professor of Biology, with a mandate to research designatory deviance,” Gabriel smirked.

“How so?”

“Because,” and he lowered his voice dramatically, despite the fact they had been speaking long enough that the canteen was now otherwise deserted, “I am probably the only person on Tsaluna who has legal access to adrenergic blockers.”

Castiel cocked his head in confusion for a moment, and then his eyes literally blazed once more as understanding struck him. “You could seriously do that for me?” he demanded. 

“I can record the entire ‘experiment’ as necessary research into Praevalen characteristics. I’ll write it up as a hypothesis that learning how to successfully suppress your designation is a necessary step towards learning how to possibly duplicate it. Bullshit, of course, but it will float if anyone ever comes sniffing around to check why I issued the drugs to you.”

“How effective are the blockers?”

“Barely effective at all, in any ordinarily useful way, which is why they were never released to the public,” Gabriel said. “They have absolutely no effect on a biological Dominant’s strength, nature or abilities unless used extensively during puberty and no-one would authorize that kind of testing on children who were genetically predisposed to become important members of society. Apparently the mandate to screw with kids is only considered acceptable in the case of Subplex. In adult test subjects, who have already developed learned behaviours, all the blockers do is dampen the adrenergic receptors. You’ll perhaps feel less likely to allow your instincts to overwhelm your logical reasoning, feel a little more ‘mellow’ perhaps, but the effects simply aren’t strong enough to change your actual behavior. Where they do have a dramatic effect, one previously considered totally counterproductive, is that they suppress the chemical indicators of your designation. In other words, they hardly affect your behaviour but they sure as hell affect everybody else’s.” 

“I will no longer be transmitting the pheromones of a biological Dominant?”

“Exactly. Which is absolutely the last thing any other designated Dominant would wish for. You will still have the problem of controlling your own response to Dey’hahn, though the drug might help you a bit, but most importantly he won’t have any problem controlling his reaction to you. At a subconscious level, he’ll perceive you as a Null, regardless of any Dom characteristics you demonstrate, so any response to you will depend entirely on his logical and emotional responses. You will know, beyond doubt, that you aren’t influencing him with your pheromones.”

“It strikes me that I would be deliberately deceiving him,” Castiel pointed out. “I would be concealing a fundamental truth.”

“Only for the absolute best of reasons, though,” Gabriel countered. “I can only imagine he will be grateful for your consideration when he finally learns the truth.”

Castiel was less convinced. Well meant or not, the idea of deliberately misleading Dey’hahn regarding his own designation struck him as wrong. He couldn’t, however, see a viable alternative. And, since he would have no idea whether his interest would even possibly be reciprocated unless he did accept Gabriel’s offer, it seemed he had no option except to say yes. 


	2. Chapter Two

For all the Federal Alliance claimed to be inclusive and altruistic, a haven for planets both young and old, rich and poor, with no race or species ascendant over another, the experience of many of its citizens did not support the Alliance’s self-congratulatory hype.

The Deltazoids, for instance, had good reason to pour scorn on the Federal motto of ‘All United For All’. They, like many dispossessed species, had found little welcome within the Federation once their ability to contribute materially to the Alliance ceased. Homeless, powerless, without currency or influence, their millennia-long history of supporting the Alliance was soon forgotten and those few tens of thousands who escaped the fatal freeze of their dying sun found no refuge or welcome on worlds that had been, in eons past, considered allies or even friends.

For the Delts who were rich enough to escape – though they were subsequently left in penury by the smugglers and pirates that offered, at huge cost, the only passage off their dying world - the only hope of survival lay in accepting whatever menial jobs might provide an escape from the tent cities that formed refugee camps in inhospitable, unwanted regions of unwelcoming worlds. 

Meg was not one of those newly impoverished refugees. She had never lived on the frozen wasteland that Falterine had become. She had never seen the glaciers that had gradually swallowed the ancient cities of her home world with the dying of their Sun. She was a child of the Alteran refugee camps, born into miserable poverty, and her first memory was of a hunger so painful that two decades later the gnawing sensation of her body seemingly attempting to devour itself from inside still haunted her dreams. 

Her escape from Altera had cost her virginity, if not her innocence since that had been lost so many years earlier that she honestly couldn’t remember a time when she had ever held the illusion that life was anything other than a series of transactions in which one slice of her soul after another had been cut away to purchase just one more day or week of existence. Her virginity, however, had somehow remained intact until she used it to purchase a passage upon a cargo freighter that had transported her halfway across the Galaxy before she was discarded, used up and no longer in possession of whatever novelty value she had offered the crew of that ship, on a planet named Tsaluna.

Of all the myriad of planets the crew might have abandoned her on, Tsaluna was, initially, probably the least welcoming of all. Within hours of her arrival, she had learned she had merely three days of grace before she would be thrown into an internment camp to await suitable disposition. In view of her experience in Altera, the word ‘camp’ was sufficiently terrifying that she would probably have accepted any offer of employment to avoid that fate. Unlike Dean, she hadn’t met a friendly Mariposa to guide her towards the location of the sole employment bureau. She had wandered hopelessly from shops, to restaurants, to bars, to beg for work only to be chased off, time after time, like an unwanted stray cat and threatened with arrest.

Which was why she hadn’t even hesitated when the Tsalun, Alastair, had approached the recessed doorway in a backstreet alley in which she was attempting to sleep on the second night after her arrival, and had offered her work at Infernum. 

Accepting a role as a server had been, after her less than wonderful experience on the cargo ship, a surprisingly welcome opportunity. Alastair’s boss, Crowley, had unexpectedly turned out to be a fair and reasonable employer and although the gradual slide from server to part-time prostitute had subsequently been an inevitable descent, she had chosen to jump onto that particular ride herself. And, unlike most of her co-workers, Meg was highly selective about her occasional ‘marks’. She wasn’t really looking for extra money. She was looking for a permanent offer. Until the right one came along, she settled for the odd tussle only with those, like Gabriel, that she probably would have chosen to hook up with anyway.

She wasn't obliged to sell herself because Crowley didn’t mind whether she did deals or not. He wasn’t a pimp. He was simply an astute businessman who accepted it was the fact his servers ran their own after-hours business that encouraged many of his customers to attend Infernum in the first place, so although he didn’t actively encourage prostitution, he definitely turned a blind eye to it. As long as Meg ensured her club customers spent a sufficiency inside the bar first, she was free to then make her own private arrangements with them for whatever extracurricular activities she chose and, most importantly, although Crowley took two-thirds of her club earnings, he never requested a cut of either her tips or her occasional, private, after-hours deals.

The only fly in the Infernum ointment was Alastair.

Meg alternated between believing Crowley was unaware of Alastair’s activities and the belief he was aware but just didn’t care. Either option was equally likely but Meg chose, on the whole, to believe the former if only because Alastair’s behavior was so potentially damaging to Infernum’s license that she doubted Crowley would risk his own involvement in such overtly criminal activities.

Alastair was a sly and clever operator though. It had taken Meg a while to figure out what he was up to, to notice that he was always seen in deep private discussions with certain shadowy figures inside the club a short while before one of the disappearances.

It had actually taken her an embarrassingly long time to even realize there _were_ disappearances. 

The thing about itinerant workers, particularly those nominally connected to the sex industry, was that they had a habit of simply getting a ‘better offer’ and moving on without even bothering to pick up a last pay check, let alone say their goodbyes.

So for a long while Meg hadn’t even noticed the constant flow of servers through the club. It was normal and expected that the faces of her co-workers would change as swiftly as the weather. It was months before she started to see a sinister pattern developing in the ebb and flow of servers. 

The ones who simply ‘disappeared’ were always of a certain type.

Although all the Servers at Infernum were humanoid, necessarily so because of the almost completely Qui clientele, the workers who went ‘missing’ were never the exotics like herself, the aliens who were distinctly unique in appearance, but were invariably only the ones who looked like wingless Qui. The aliens who identified as more ‘human’ than ‘humanoid’. Particularly those from young-world planets such as Earth.

Even so, it hadn’t been until the arrival a couple of weeks earlier, of the Earther Polilla, Dey’hahn, that Meg had finally joined all the dots together and understood that the real connection between all the missing servers was that each and every one of them had been biologically Submissive. 

Since she was non-designate herself, she had never made the connection before. She hadn’t identified the fact that the faint pheromone signature that each of the ‘victims’ emitted was of particular significance. She hadn’t even been truly aware that it was the presence of pheromones that was causing her overly sensitive Delt nose to twitch. It wasn’t as though the pheromones had an actual scent, after all. It was more a case of them feeling like a tingling field of electric static that radiated from certain individuals. One that seemed to vibrate on a frequency that she, somehow, was particularly receptive to. 

But with the arrival of the Polilla, the Earther male who radiated a static field that caused her senses to jangle in response, Meg finally realized that to a far lesser extent all of the disappeared had shared a very similar signature. And because Dey’hahn was a Polilla, someone who was blatantly and overtly a biological ‘submissive’, Meg finally realized it was that - or at least something very similar – that she had sensed on all of those other servers. 

That was when she had made the connection that the shadowy figures Alastair had always been conferring with shortly before the disappearances had also caused her senses to vibrate, although on a totally different frequency.

And so, finally, it had occurred to her what Alastair was doing.

Admittedly, her first reaction after reaching understanding was simply to feel grateful for her own non-designate status. Now she understood Alastair’s game, it was obvious to her that she herself was never going to be a victim of his perfidy and so the self-protective instincts that had been on high alert calmed down considerably. Her whole life had taught her that looking after number one should be her priority, since no-one else was going to bother looking out on her behalf. And just as she didn’t expect anyone else to protect her, she didn’t see why she should take responsibility for anyone else either. If anyone was stupid enough to let themselves get hurt, then that was their own fault and definitely not her problem.

There was a Xiain server named Lilith that Meg was absolutely positive was on Alastair’s radar. She was a pretty blonde thing with violet eyes who made Meg literally want to sneeze whenever they were in close proximity. The little bitch also had a habit of stealing tips off Meg all the time by slyly sliding onto the laps of Meg’s customers to arrange her own extracurricular deals whenever Meg returned to the bar to replenish her tray. Meg was almost looking forward to the day that particular girl went ‘missing’.

But for some stupid, insane reason, Meg found herself constantly bothered that Dey’hahn was inevitably also destined to eventually ‘disappear’. 

She couldn’t work out how he had somehow slid under her defenses. Why it even mattered to her whether or not he came to harm. It didn’t even make sense that she was worried about him at all. She’d seen him literally punch a young, drunk but still fully-grown Qui mid-flight and send him crashing to the floor in a bruised, humiliated heap. Submissive or not, Dey’hahn was definitely not someone incapable of looking after himself.

Though, maybe, that was exactly why she found herself stupidly worrying about him. Because, like her, he had clearly made the decision not to be a victim. Because he, like her, was just trying to make the best of the shitty hand life had dealt him. Because he had enough crap to deal with every day just to survive without some asshole like Alastair seeing him as a way to make some fast illegal credits. 

Because no matter how strong or brave or defiant Dey’hahn was when confronted by the drunken student-types who constantly attempted to demand his attention in the club, confronted by the physical strength of a fully mature, sober Qui biological Dominant, Dey’hahn probably wouldn’t stand a chance and Meg was damned sure the peculiar sense-tingling sensations she experienced from Alastair’s secretive companions were caused by Dominant pheromones. 

So, although she didn’t want to get ‘involved’, Meg decided it wouldn’t hurt to make sure that Dey’hahn never left the club alone. Walking back to their boarding house in his company made sense anyway, since walking through those dark alleyways alone wasn’t pleasant or risk-free for her either. The fact she couldn’t imagine anyone attempting to snatch Dey’hahn from right in front of a witness was simply a side-consequence of her doing what was also in her own best interest, she decided. 

It had been eight days since they had begun sharing the journey to work and back together, eight days of moving from strangers, to cautious acquaintances, to casual companions and then to something Meg considered a fledgling friendship, when Alastair finally made his move.

At least, Meg was pretty damned sure that was what was happening. 

It began with the arrival of an unfamiliar mature biological Dominant to the club a couple of hours after it opened. Meg had been left in no doubt whatsoever about his designation because he had prowled into the bar as though he owned it, sweeping through the groups of students with a cocky, dangerous stride. She had seen several of the younger Qui hastily step out of his way, their eyes dropping in either fear or respect as he strutted through their midst with an arrogance so ingrained that she instantly realized the new arrival was not only designate but was also High Qui.

Instinctively she eyed him carefully, judging his clothing, his attitude and the effect he had on the other customers and concluded he was an example of the worst possible combination of capricious fate; a Qui nobleman from a High Qui family, born with a significant genetic advantage in addition to his social status and yet, from the slightly outmoded fashion of his clothing and his obnoxious air of over-inflated self-importance, not a particularly rich nor genuinely influential nobleman.

Basically, nothing more than a moderately wealthy, glorified country hick who had arrived in the infinite city from some crumbling far off estate, and was used to having enough power and influence in his home region to have become a bully and a boor. In Arthos, however, the incumbent High Qui probably saw him as a poor, powerless irrelevance in comparison with themselves. A more intelligent Qui might have been humbled to arrive in Arthos and realize for the first time that he wasn’t, after all, a very important individual because the city was filled with Qui of similar or better backgrounds. 

Gabriel, for instance, who could trace his heritage back for millennia. Gabriel’s matriarchal line had held influence in Tsaluna for thousands of years, and yet their wealth had dwindled over the recent centuries, lost to death duties, taxes and unwise alliances with the ‘wrong’ political factions. Gabriel laughed about his financial situation, accepted his need to ‘work for a living’ unlike his predecessors, and referred to his family estate fondly as the ‘crumbling old pile’. He never mentioned his High Qui status, except in gentle self-mockery, and he certainly never used it to bully or belittle. 

But Gabriel was non-designate. Perhaps, she considered darkly, that was the difference.

This wasn’t the first time she had witnessed a similar customer behaving so badly in Infernum. It was, however, the first time one such as he had arrived since Dey’hahn’s employment. So she hadn’t immediately registered that the Polilla would be in specific danger until she saw a flutter of dark wings on the edge of her vision and looked over in surprise to see that Dey’hahn’s ‘fluffy chicken’ had stiffened in his seat and was glaring towards the bar with cerulean eyes that literally seemed to glow with preternatural light. 

She turned to follow his gaze and saw that the blustering Qui newcomer had barrelled his way through the crowd directly to the Bar and was now standing there, wings half spread like a menacing cloak, and the resultant tableau had caused all conversion to cease entirely as everyone listened to the arrogant bastard proclaiming that Dey’hahn was to put down the bottle he was holding and “kneel to attend to my needs immediately”.

In the shocked silence that greeted that announcement, the only sound Meg heard was a low, rumbling growl. One she could have sworn came from the direction of the black-winged Professor. 

Black shadows shifted in the periphery of her vision and, though she dared not take her eyes off the bar long enough to check, she was sure seven feet of black-winged Qui had just risen to his feet. So the Professor was a hawk, rather than a chicken, she thought, even as she found her own feet drawing her towards the bar where it seemed violence was going to imminently erupt.

“You after a job?” Dey’hahn asked, his voice totally clear and carefree. Only the unusual paleness of his skin indicating he wasn’t quite as cavalier about the situation as he appeared. 

“WHAT?” the High Qui snarled.

Dey’hahn casually waved his right hand in the direction of the FedStan sign that stated ‘Full-service bar: staff only beyond this point.’ 

“You’re supposed to take a seat and wait to be served,” Dey’hahn explained pleasantly. “Unless you’re looking for a job, of course. You’d need to talk to Mr. Crowley about that, though, and his standards are pretty high, so you’re probably shit out of luck, since the ability to READ is a bare fucking minimum standard of employment here.”

“You will show me respect, Cunnus,” the Dominant roared.

“Call me a whore again and I’ll show you my foot up your ass, Farrago,” Dey’hahn snapped, his eyes flashing with furious defiance.

She snorted, even despite her terror the situation would swiftly escalate. Calling a High Qui a mongrel was probably the worst kind of insult the Polilla could have hurled.

And then Alastair was there, smooth and ingratiating. Whispering something into the High Qui’s ear, something that caused the Qui’s posture to relax, and his wings to close. Alastair leading him away from the bar with an arm over the Qui’s shoulder and his mandibles constantly clicking some quiet, secretive conversation that appeared to soothe the Qui completely.

She saw Dey’hahn slump as though his knees had almost literally given way with relief and, in that moment, clearly saw the glistening of sweat on his brow and the white flash of panic in his eyes. She understood that he had been terrified, despite his cool, cocky bravado, and she wondered how much willpower it had taken to stand in defiance against the battering pressure of the Qui’s pheromones. She imagined every instinct Dey’hahn had would have been howling at him to submit and yet he had stood tall and defiant until the danger had passed, only giving in to his fear afterward and, even then, so slightly that she doubted anyone other than herself had seen it at all. 

Well, with the possible exception of the sweet-mannered Professor to her left who had reseated himself and refolded his wings, although all of his feathers still appeared to be fluffed up in alarm. She chanced a few steps in his direction and then paused in confusion. She had never been entirely sure whether he was the Praevalen his coloring and size indicated. She had never previously sensed herself to have anything except the briefest suggestion of a reaction to his presence but now, considering his obvious agitation, he should be emanating a flood of furious pheromones. He wasn’t. She sensed nothing. 

So he was non-designate after all. 

She wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or bad, under the circumstances. 

Probably good though. He was still one mother of a big, strong-looking bastard, despite his typically inoffensive demeanor, and, clearly, he felt protective towards Dey’hahn. 

So, she decided, perhaps it was a good thing that the quiet Professor’s obvious intention to step in if the situation had descended into violence had been motivated by genuine concern, rather than a territorial instinct. Meg didn’t imagine someone as proud and self-sufficient as Dey’hahn ever welcoming the idea of a Dom swooping in to rescue him from a situation, as though he were a fainting maiden. Accepting help from a Null, though, wouldn’t carry the same connotations.

The club settled down, normal chatter resuming, but Meg remained unsettled and cautious. She was convinced that, somehow, the danger remained even though she had no genuine cause for believing so.

A few hours later, her instincts flared into overdrive again. This time her reaction was not due to sensing the presence of angry pheromone emissions. The feeling of dread she experienced was, however, equally sickening.

She was, totally unexpectedly, taken aside by Alastair and told her shift pattern had been temporarily changed, effective immediately. He claimed some ‘friends’ of his were arriving just before the club’s normal closing time, and so he was planning to have a private ‘shut in’ for them. He wanted her to stay over for several hours to keep them entertained. Dey’hahn, he said, when she questioned him, wouldn’t be required to work over.

It could have been totally innocuous. The fact Dey’hahn would be leaving the club alone as a consequence of her working late might have been a simple coincidence.

But Meg didn’t believe it.

There was something too coldly satisfied in the look in Alastair’s eyes and in the sneer of his lips.

She was suddenly damned sure she was never going to see the Polilla again.

Meg fretted for several hours, sure she needed to do something but uncertain of a course of action; all the while reminding herself angrily it was not her problem to resolve.

An hour before the club closed, she gave in to her worry, slipped into the hallway behind the bar area and snuck towards Crowley’s office with a half-formed plan to ‘accidentally’ casually mention the fact that Dey’hahn would be walking home alone that night. She was reasonably certain that Crowley would be unhappy at the idea of his golden goose being vulnerable like that. The club revenue had almost doubled over the last two and a half weeks. Dey’hahn had to be more valuable working in the bar than any amount of money some minor High Qui could possibly afford to pay for him. So there was no way Crowley would allow Alastair to make Dey’hahn ‘disappear’.

But Crowley’s office was empty and shrouded in darkness. 

Meg returned to the club area even more convinced that Alastair was up to no good and was taking advantage of Crowley’s unusual absence to line his own pockets.

There had to be something she could do other than simply warn Dey’hahn to be careful. Even that would be pointless, anyway. Dey’hahn, leaving Infernum alone, would automatically be careful. He’d rush as quickly as possible to the safety of the boarding house whether she told him to or not. But it had been hours since the Dominant had left the club. Enough time for him to lay any number of traps in the narrow alleys behind Infernum. 

She only had one remaining idea, a total long shot, of how to help her… her… okay, damnit, her friend.

Dean was neither stupid nor naïve. 

He hadn’t actually heard what Crowley’s lackey, Alastair, had said to the Dominant to convince him to walk away, but he had no illusions it boded anything good for himself. Then the fact that Alastair had subsequently come up with a reason for Meg to work during a ‘shut in’, something that would be in clear breach of Infernum’s license, had solidified his suspicions into something more tangible. 

The thing was, Dean had felt how much the Dom had wanted him. The bastard’s pheromones had hit him like a battering ram, hungry, rapacious, greedy, slavering all over him like a sensation of some virulent disease sliding over and into his skin.

It had left him feeling soiled in a way he hadn’t felt since the day he had run from Michael.

And he no more believed that the aggressive Dom had simply given up and gone home than he believed Michael had simply woken up, shrugged, and gotten on with his life without him eighteen months earlier.

So he thought it was reasonable to suspect Alastair had told the Dominant about the back door and about the route Dean would take home. He couldn’t imagine that Crowley would ever allow Alastair to let him be seriously hurt. The Dom was probably only intending to rape him. 

Only. 

Such a tiny sickening word. But Dean imagined ‘only’ was exactly the word that Alastair was using to justify the betrayal. 

Dean was _only_ a trained submissive. Only a Mariposa dressed up as a Polilla. In Alastair’s mind, the situation was probably nothing more than him allowing a Dom to use an already well-used whore and the only thing that would make the situation ‘rape’ at all would be the unlikelihood of Dean being paid.

Truth was, if he himself was capable of the same pragmatism, the situation wouldn’t even be truly terrifying. If he thought himself capable of simply submitting to the Dom’s wishes, as he had been trained to always do under such circumstances, he probably wouldn’t even get hurt.

But fuck that shit. 

Although Dean knew he had a snowball’s chance in hell of defending himself against a full-blown Qui dominant who was determined to subdue him, he still had every intention of going down fighting. If he survived the experience, not necessarily a given, he would at least be able to look at himself in the mirror the next day as long as the face he was looking at was one that had been battered into submission.

Odd, perhaps, that his greatest fear wasn’t that he might get savagely raped but that the attack would not be savage _enough_. But Dean was nothing if not a realist. The odds of him getting back to the boarding house in one piece were probably slim to none, but he could damn well protect his own self-respect. To concentrate on ensuring the Dom stole nothing more from him than the temporary use of his body. 

Still, better to avoid the situation entirely if at all possible. So when he left the club he deliberately turned left rather than right, his intention to avoid his normal route entirely. If he went wide, then walked far into the rear of the residential district before turning back again, he imagined his route would eventually loop back behind the boarding house and allow him to approach it from the rear. It would more than double the distance of his journey but would considerably reduce the chance of his being intercepted. 

The alley was dimly lit, overhung by tall buildings that cast darker shadows from each recessed door and protruding balcony. Every few hundred feet there were narrow passages that ran between the buildings, each one a place where someone could easily secrete themselves to lie in wait for him. Keeping to the center of the alleys as he walked would keep him under the dim streetlights, in clear view of anyone looking for him, but creeping along the edges would make it far too easy for anyone lurking in wait to catch him by surprise. 

He decided to go for speed and increased security over discretion. It was faster to walk down the central part of the alley, where the rough cobbles weren’t disturbed by drain holes that would slow his pace and put him at risk of turning an ankle. 

He hesitated a moment when he reached an intersection that led in the direction he needed to turn, when he saw a couple of figures walking abreast a dozen feet ahead of him. They were walking with their backs to him, so he still had the option of choosing a different route. But, even in the dim lighting he could see their wings were the bat-like appendages of Tsalun, rather than the bird-like wings of Qui, so he assumed they were just City guards running their normal patrols of the night-time streets. 

They were walking slowly, their steps measured, and, except for the slight awkwardness of having to carefully slip past them because the two hulking Tsalun filled almost the full width of the narrow alleyway, their presence didn’t cause him any alarm. 

Until, when he was a few steps in front of them, one of the Tsalun coughed loudly to clear his throat and then demanded to see Dean’s ID. 

For a moment he had an insane urge to flee, despite the knowledge that Tsalun could fly considerably faster than any human could run, and then he remembered his ID was completely in order. He was a legitimately employed Immigrant Worker. He couldn’t be arrested because he hadn’t done anything wrong; so he had nothing to fear.

Even so, his heart was thudding with panic as he turned back and proffered his wrist for them to scan. He sighed with relief when it blazed green. 

The two Tsaluna chittered between themselves for a moment, then the Tsalun on the right spoke in FedStan as he said, “Your ID is indicating a problem with your status.” 

Which was, belatedly, the moment he remembered that ‘red’ was the color that indicated ‘okay’ on Tsaluna. 

“I have Immigrant Worker status,” Dean argued. “I am legitimately employed at Infernum and my contract was formally recorded with the Immigrant Worker Bureau.”

“That information was correctly filed online and correlates with your data chip,” the Tsalun agreed. “That is not the problem with your status.” 

“Then what IS the problem with my status?” Dean demanded angrily. 

“Your registered Dominant has reported you as being currently outside without his permission,” the Tsalun stated, tapping his scanning device a couple of times. “He has lodged a request for you to be held for retrieval. I have just sent him a message that we have located you.” 

“I don’t have a Dominant,” Dean spat. “Registered or otherwise.” 

The Tsalun looked back at his scanner, read the details on the screen and shrugged. “Lord Rafe D’Viim formally recorded you as being his Submissive three hours ago.”

“I’ve never even heard of the name,” Dean protested honesty, though he had a damned good idea _who_ Rafe was. “And, correct me if I’m wrong, but Federation Law demands that both a Dominant and a Submissive need to jointly record their agreed contract in front of a judge before it is legally enforceable. As a Federal Citizen, I demand the protection of Federal Law and as law enforcers you are obliged to uphold my rights.” 

The Tsaluna looked unimpressed but, surprisingly, his colleague chittered agitatedly for a moment and then said, in FedStan, “He’s right. Plus, look at his tattoo. He’s a Polilla, Kanet. It’s possible the Qui is pulling a fast one. Not the first time one of those cheap-ass rural High Qui have tried something like this to avoid having to pay a City whore their legitimate fee.” 

Kanet considered that, then shrugged his acceptance of the point. “We can sort it out when he gets here,” he told Dean. “Don’t concern yourself, Polilla. If the Qui _is_ a customer attempting to avoid payment, we will ensure he removes the record and deposits your credits before we allow him to take you.”

“How about you just don’t let him take me at all?” Dean suggested hopefully.

Neither Tsalun bothered to reply. Then again, they would have barely had time to anyway because that was when Rafe arrived in a noisy flutter of wings.

Dean sensed him even before he saw him. The sickening sense of being assaulted by a wall of pheromones hit him before the Qui, Rafe, even flew around the corner, landed gracefully, folded his wings and then strode towards them with a confident, arrogant strut. He ignored Dean completely, instead addressing the Tsalun in a stream of Quian that Dean was incapable of following. The three Tsalunniqui conversed with each other for several minutes, all ignoring Dean’s angry demands to be included in the conversation, and then Kanet entered something into his scanner before he finally turned to address Dean directly.

“Lord D’Viim has acknowledged that he displayed an inappropriate amount of enthusiasm in filing his claim a little too early. He has agreed the record should be temporarily deleted until you attend a judge together in the morning to record your mating _properly_. In the meantime, at our suggestion, he has deposited the substantial and surprisingly generous amount of 2000 credits into your account as he accepts that your time between now and then is chargeable. That concludes our legal obligations to both of you in this matter. I suggest in future that you negotiate your own fees, Polilla. The City Guard does not exist to act as your Patron.”

With that, and a final disparaging sniff from Kanet, the two Tsalun took their leave.

Rafe waited as the Tsalun walked away, then grinned nastily at Dean. “That was even easier than I expected. Alastair was right. The city guards are so predictably officious.”

Dean’s stomach sank at the confirmation that Alastair had set this up. It sounded as though the Tsalun had even advised Rafe how to use the guards to aid his hunt. The only good news was that the ‘record’ had just been erased from the central computer. If Dean somehow managed to get away from him now, Rafe would be unable to use the Tsalun guards to locate him a second time. 

“Sounds like it was more expensive than you expected,” Dean countered coolly, though his eyes were darting up and down the Alleyway in search of an escape route. He needed a narrower path, one that would prevent Rafe from utilizing his wings for the chase. “It would have been far cheaper for you to just contract a _willing_ companion for the night.” 

“It cost me nothing except the fee I paid your employer for his assistance. By this time tomorrow you will be my legal property and so, therefore, will your credits,” Rafe chuckled. 

Dean startled. “Not a chance in hell, asshole. There isn’t a judge in Arthos who would approve you forcefully mating an emancipated Polilla. We have full legal status here.” He said it deliberately because Alastair knew what he _really_ was. Because Alastair might have told Rafe what he was. Which, oddly, would at least explain what was going on here because he’d thought the Dom was intending to rape him. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Rafe might genuinely want to _mate_ him. 

“I won’t do it in Arthos,” Rafe shrugged. “I assure you there isn’t a court on my family lands that will stand against me in this matter. Accept it, Cunnus, you’re mine now and I intend to keep you. I will enjoy fucking the defiance out of you and reminding you of your place. Something sorely overdue, it appears, from your unseemly demeanor.”

Dean balled his fists. “Like to see you try,” he said.

The smile that widened shark-like on Rafe’s face was so smugly satisfied that Dean had the sinking feeling that it was this moment that the Qui had been waiting for since the moment Dean had refused his advances in Infernum.

“By the time I finish with you, you will be begging for my cock,’ Rafe promised. 

He moved so quickly that Dean barely had time to react. It was almost as though the Qui somehow teleported towards him. One moment there was several feet of distance between them, a second later Rafe was right in his face, one hand buried in Dean’s hair, using it to cruelly wrench his head backwards to expose his throat. His other hand clawed at the harness Dean wore, tearing it off him with a violence that left welts where the leather and metal straps were simply ripped off his body as though they were as insubstantial as the translucent cloth of his moth-wing cloak.

Before Dean’s right hand even connected with Rafe’s jaw, he was completely naked.

Dean ignored the pain. His fist connected with Rafe’s jaw so hard that he actually heard several of the Qui’s teeth crack. He didn’t wait for a reaction before using his left fist to sucker punch Rafe in the stomach. Then he danced backward, both fists raised before him ready to strike again. He saw Rafe stagger with surprise, saw a gratifying flash of uncertainty in the Qui’s eyes and he grinned at him with satisfaction. He imagined Rafe had thought his nakedness would make him feel vulnerable but he was Mariposa. His flesh wasn’t shameful to him. It was oddly empowering.

“You’ll regret that,” Rafe promised him darkly, spitting out a gob of blood and spittle.

“I doubt it,” Dean replied, circling warily. He didn’t doubt Rafe would win the fight; now that he’d lost the element of surprise it was unlikely he’d manage to do the Qui much further damage, but he was never going to regret it.

“You’ve clearly never been fucked by a real Dominant,” Rafe continued conversationally, even as he moved with the same swiftness as before. His fist missed Dean’s face, but powered into his right shoulder blade with a sickening impact that knocked Dean off his feet completely. He landed heavily, his ass smashing down onto the stone cobbles so hard he felt the impact all the way up his spine. But he still rolled instinctively and scrambled back to his feet just in time to avoid the foot that was aimed at his ribs.

He punched out with his left hand as he rose, managing to catch Rafe off-balance, and smirked at the Qui’s roar of pained surprise as he struck him hard enough to fracture a rib. His right arm, though, was dangling uselessly at his side. He wasn’t sure whether his shoulder was dislocated or broken but, either way, that arm was now useless.

“Know why I know that?” Rafe said, his own right hand darting forward to grab Dean around the neck. “Because you might have a surprisingly high resistance to the external effects of Dominant pheromones but it’s irrelevant because you’re not a mere Submissive. You’re Polilla. That means you’re a Subplex. Once my pheromones are inside you, you’ll literally be addicted to me. It’s like the worst type of drug addiction. Only takes one dose and you’re fucked. Literally in your case. So I hope you enjoyed this moment of defiance, Cunnus, because it will be your last. You will spend the rest of your life crawling after me and begging me to give you your daily ‘fix’.” 

He was completely insane, Dean decided, with hopeless desperation. Michael had been a card-carrying biological Dominant and, sure, Dean had been a bit of a needy bitch at times but that had been because he’d been in love with the asshole and the sex between them had been good. But he sure as hell had never been ‘addicted’. He’d never begged. And even if the sex between them had been good enough to maybe be slightly addictive, it hadn’t been much of a drug because he’d found it easy enough to go cold turkey the minute Michael’s perfidy had been revealed.

So the Qui was talking out of his ass.

Rafe’s hand closed chokingly around Dean’s windpipe as he literally lifted him off the ground and held him there, dangling helplessly, as he began to unfasten his pants with his left hand. “I’m going to make you scream,” he promised. “And then, if you even have enough voice left to speak, you’ll beg me to do it again, and again, and again.”

Dean used his left hand to claw at the hand that was choking him, even as he kicked wildly at the Qui. His eyes were blurring, the edges of his vision shaded in darkness, his lips turning blue, as his lungs desperately worked to draw air into his throat past the Qui’s cruel constricting fingers.

And then, abruptly, Rafe released him completely and he fell, landing on his ass once more, croaking a pained exhalation from his bruised throat.

He could barely see at all. His eyes seemed to be exploding with fireworks, white flashes in front of his eyes like the worst migraine aura ever, over a darkness so enveloping that it seemed some huge black shadow had swallowed not only the streetlights but also the stars in the night sky.

He heard a roar that sounded primal, animalistic, a sound that ripped through the night like the rumbling thunder of an avalanche. Or a wild beast, perhaps. Whatever the source of the noise, it caused his eardrums to feel like they might literally burst; it caused every hair on his body to stand proud from his flesh and goosebumps to raise on his arms and legs. 

Something crackled in the air, something dark and wild like the ozone of a storm. An electric, charged sensation like the instant before lightning struck. And some instinct caused him to drop his head, squeezing his sore eyes tightly shut even as the unnatural blackness was abruptly painted with an explosion of light so brightly white that it was almost blue. It was as though an atomic bomb exploded around him. Even with his eyes shut, the light still seemed to sear into him. He felt it ripping through his body like a fireball and, for a moment, believed he was being immolated.

Heat, light, sound, all crashing over and through him like an unbearable pressure wave.

And then a blessed, unnatural stillness as the heat and light and sound dissipated into the chill silence of the night.

Slowly, cautiously, he opened eyelids that felt gritty and raw, and then he sucked in a breath and tried not to cry out in terror.

Where Rafe had stood, the street was now empty.

In the dim orangey glow of the streetlights, nothing remained of the Dominant except the faint impression of shadowy wings burned onto the stone facia of one of the buildings that lined the Alley and, perhaps, a trace of ash on the cobbles although the faint night breeze was already swirling the grey powder away.

He carefully sniffed the air. Although pheromones didn’t smell, it was definitely easier to concentrate on sensing them if he piggybacked his instincts through his smell receptors. There was nothing. Not even any faint remaining trace of Rafe’s presence.

So whoever was standing there, just slightly out of his direct line of sight, they were Null. Non-designate. He let go of a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding and twisted, slowly and painfully, just enough to see whoever it was that had saved him.

He thought he ought to be more surprised than he actually was, as he recognized his rescuer.

His voice was barely more than a croak when he swallowed to wet his throat and then said, “Particle beam weapons were Universally-banned centuries ago,” to the unnaturally tall, shadowy – but not totally unfamiliar - figure standing just inside the entrance of the Alleyway. “Just sayin’,” he added, lest the Qui mistook his comment for criticism. 

The black-winged Professor took a few cautious steps forward, only to pause immediately when Dean flinched involuntarily. Instead he opened and raised his arms to show they were empty. “I have no weapon,” he said, his voice so deep it made Dean shiver. Or maybe that was the cold. He was suddenly aware he was naked, sitting on frigid stone in the middle of the night with a probably broken collar bone. Possibly a fractured humerus too, considering he couldn’t move that arm at all without wanting to throw up. Obviously the shivers wracking his body were not fear or shock or even a response to his unexpected rescuer’s deep tones. He was just cold and in pain.

“So what exactly are you a Professor of?” Dean asked, his voice ragged.

The Qui cocked his head in confusion at the non-sequitur.

“At the University,” Dean clarified. “What do you teach? Some kind of chemistry, I guess, or engineering? Must be some kind of science, considering you have an illegal weapon.” 

“I repeat, I have no weapon,” the Qui said, in his molten gravel voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean agreed blithely, making a deliberate zipping motion over his mouth. “I saw no weapon,” he agreed easily. “Didn’t even see _you_ , if that’s the way you want to play it.”

“I am the Arthosian Professor of Antiquities,” the Qui informed him quietly. “I teach History. Which is considered an Art rather than a Science. And I am not ‘playing’ anything. Your Deltazoid friend, Meg, was concerned for your welfare. She asked me to ensure you returned home safely. I said that I would. Clearly I have failed. I apologize most sincerely for arriving too late, Dey’hahn.” 

For the first time since he had started working at Infernum, Dean found himself disliking the sound of his new ‘name’. It sounded wrong spoken in this Qui’s voice. It sounded like a lie. It _was_ a lie. There was nothing ‘cute’ or cuddly about Dean Winchester. Though, realistically, the Qui staring at him with his piercing blue eyes had invariably already figured that much out for himself.

“You saved my ass,” Dean said. “You weren’t obliged to. I didn’t ask you to. I didn’t need you to. So don’t you dare apologize to me for being ‘too late’.” 

The Qui blinked at him slowly. “Should I instead apologize for arriving at all?”

Dean frowned at him. The Qui sounded genuinely confused, rather than sarcastic. Sarcasm definitely would have been warranted though, under the circumstances, which made him sigh defeatedly. He was being an ungrateful asshole. “Thank you for your help,” he said, hoping he had fully camouflaged his irritation that ‘help’ had been needed at all. “Not that I saw any help, obviously. Particularly not of the particle beam weapon kind,” he added, with a cheeky wink. 

The Qui opened his mouth, as though to protest once more, then silently closed it again in seeming defeat.

“So what’s your name?” Dean demanded.

The Qui flushed slightly, dipping his head shyly. “Castiel Ll’ell,” he said. 

Dean tried it on his tongue. It felt clumsy and awkward. There were more L’s in that name than even a Welshman would appreciate having to pronounce. He gave up. “Cas,” he said firmly. “Good name. Short. Strong. To the point. I like it.”

The Qui, who had initially looked as though he might object to the nickname, flushed again at the additional comments and remained quiet. 

Dean made a decision. He owed the guy this much at least. “You can call me Dean,” he said. 

He saw Cas’s mouth work silently, tasting the word, testing it on his tongue, seemingly having the same problem as Crowley had with the pronunciation. It seemed that none of the Tsalunniqui could comfortably pronounce the double-vowels of his name. 

“Dey’n?” Cas finally offered. 

“C..c..close enough,” Dean agreed cheerfully, although his teeth were starting to chatter uncontrollably. He wondered whether shock-induced hypothermia was a thing. He thought it was probably a thing.

The Qui appeared to come to the same conclusion. 

“You require urgent medical assistance,” Cas pronounced, and some trick of light made his eyes look as though they were glowing. Or maybe Dean was just starting to hallucinate. He really was starting to shake now.

“I’m f..f..f…fine. J..just c…c…c…cold,” Dean said.

“I will transport you to a medical facility immediately,” Cas announced, stepping forward with such purpose that he ignored Dean’s automatic flinch completely this time.

“No, goddamnit,” Dean snarled as the Qui reached for him.

“I assure you, I mean no harm to you,” Cas said, as though soothing a spooked animal. 

“I’m not scared of you, you dork. I just c…c…can’t afford to go to a doctor, okay? Even if the guard was telling the t..t..t..truth about those new credits, even a bodyscan is out of my budget and I’ve w…w…watched you in the club, Cas. I know you don’t have any m..m…money to spare either.”

“You have watched me?” Castiel queried carefully.

“Not like a c…c…creeper,” Dean muttered, flushing.

Castiel frowned, then seemed to come to an abrupt decision. “I know a clinic that will treat you without charge,” he said. He stooped down and reached for Dean.

“Don’t you d…d…dare,” Dean began, as he abruptly realized what the Qui meant by ‘transport’.

“Trust me,” Castiel said firmly, though he looked peculiarly guilty even as he said it, and then ignoring Dean’s protests he effortlessly picked him up, cradled him in his arms, spread his wings and lifted into the air.

Dean absolutely did not scream.

He could do nothing except close his eyes and cling on, chanting desperately under his breath that he would kick Cas’s ass later for making him ‘fly’.

Castiel was unsure whether it was the shock of the flight, the unfortunately unavoidable lower temperature experienced at altitude or simply the pain from his shoulder, but by the time he arrived at the N’Vak School of Medicine, Dey’n had lost consciousness entirely.

He felt guilty that his primary emotion regarding that fact was relief.

It made it far easier for him to sweep into the part of the School that provided a subsidized treatment clinic, identify himself and demand assistance for his charge.

He tried not to think too hard about how he did so.

Castiel hadn’t used the name N’Vak for over ten years. He had sworn, when he made the decision to change his professional name to Ll’ell, that he would never acknowledge the N’Vak name again. Just as he had sworn never to use his designation to claim rights and privileges that he hadn’t earned but that were due him only because of an accident of birth.

Yet he flew into the clinic and announced himself to be Castiel N’Vak, Praevalen heir of the N’Vak dynasty. He did so in the full knowledge that those words would have worked magically in any Arthosian institution but that in the N’Vak School of Medicine they would ensure that every single medic in the building would immediately triage all of their other patients, regardless of the severity of their injuries, and leap to do Castiel’s bidding as their only priority.

He wasn’t proud of doing it.

But he didn’t hesitate, either.

Neither was he proud of the real reason he’d chosen that particular clinic. It had nothing to do with the fact it was subsidized because it was a training clinic staffed by students. Castiel could have easily, and happily, afforded to pay for Dey’n to be treated anywhere. His decision was not driven by cost.

And yet, again, he didn’t hesitate to take advantage of a name and heritage that he had previously rejected.

He told the staff unequivocally that FedStan was not to be spoken in Dey’n’s presence. That for the duration of his visit and treatment, the only language permitted within the building was Quian. He told the staff that all costs of Dey’n’s treatment were to be charged directly to his own personal account and that the Polilla was to be treated with courtesy, respect and compassion at all times but he was not to be spoken to.

Dey’n was not officially registered as his submissive. Therefore it was a clear breach of the law for him to demand Dominant privilege where Dey’n was concerned. Any other clinic might well have – respectfully – challenged his orders. The N’Vak clinic most assuredly would not. They would cheerfully assume, incorrectly, that he and Dey’n had already reached a private understanding that a contract would be agreed between them, and so would comply with Castiel’s demands.

Dey’n would therefore have no way of knowing that Castiel was about to spin him a huge web of white lies.

Castiel could only hope that Dey’n would, eventually, forgive him for the deception when eventually, inevitably, the Polilla learned the truth. 

He felt sickened by the need to deceive Dey’n at all, but that horse had well and truly bolted the moment he’d decided to take Gabriel’s adrenergic blockers to suppress his pheromones. Now that Dey’n had accepted him as a penniless non-designate, there was no way to explain his sudden acquisition of enough wealth and influence to pay for the treatment without admitting who he truly was, and that inevitably would lead to his unavoidable confession of being Praevalen.

At this stage of their fledgling relationship, even the smallest hint of deception would inevitably send Dey’n fleeing - particularly in the immediate wake of Rafe’s assault - so Castiel felt he had no choice except to continue hiding his true nature. 

Most importantly, though, he now had an opportunity to get to know Dey’n as an individual, without their pheromones influencing their behavior. He could only hope that if something did come of this opportunity - if the pair of them both eventually came to the decision that they were genuinely compatible - that Dey’n would be as grateful as he was to know that decision was made free of hormonal influences.

Although, having seen Dey’n’s magnificent temper in action, he didn’t even try to fool himself that he wouldn’t be held accountable regardless. He had the distinct feeling this deception was going to cost him dearly, one way or the other, even if he was ultimately forgiven.

Dean was considerably relieved to wake up and discover that not only had he not been kidnapped by Cas and taken to some secret lair for some nefarious reason – a thought that had occurred to him mid-flight – but that the medical care offered in Arthos was demonstrably superior to that offered on Earth even in the case of the treatment of alien patients by Qui student doctors.

The Qui medics appeared completely conversant with human biology, quickly and effectively knitting his bones back together - his humus had been cracked - and effortlessly erasing the bruises and marks of Raphael’s assault from his flesh.

He was grateful that Cas stayed with him for the treatment, though, since all of the Qui pretended not to understand a word of FedStan. Dean hated the kind of people who traveled to different planets and expected the inhabitants to speak their language. That was just arrogant and ignorant rudeness, in his opinion. But he wasn’t asking them to speak his specific language. Federation Standard was so-named for a reason. Which meant the Qui were simply choosing to refuse to converse with him in anything other than Quian.

Which, unfortunately, he only knew half a dozen words of.

Well, that wasn’t strictly true. Quian, like the other Old Race languages, shared certain words with a dead Earth language called Latin. The only explanation for which was the myth that young worlds such as Earth had been regularly visited by members of those various extraterrestrial races during the formative years of its early civilization.

Which also explained why the Qui looked so much like historical, artistic representations of Angels. Dean could definitely picture a dickhead like Rafe flying around pre-industrial Earth and pretending to be some kind of superior holy being, just to stroke his own ego.

Even so, between the fact Latin hadn’t been spoken on Earth for nearly two millennia and that Quian was spoken with rapid fluidity by the Tsalunniqui, even the words he _did_ know were rarely identifiable when spoken aloud.

He decided that it was just a Tsaluna planetary trait to deliberately talk over the heads of alien visitors; using their own language as a deliberate way to remain aloof and mysterious, the average Qui were obviously just as dickishly self-important as the Tsalun. Maybe being Old Worlders afforded them all a sense of superiority. 

He didn’t call them on their behavior, though. He was too grateful for their professional, efficient and apparently free assistance to make a fuss about their refusal to make polite conversation. Even so, having Cas there to explain what was going on was a considerable relief under the circumstances.

“This is part of the Arthosian University, which is the most prestigious institute of learning in Tsaluna,” Castiel explained, when Dean asked exactly where he was. “These medics are students, rather than fully qualified physicians, but they won their positions here by being the best of the best. Also the Qui standing in the corner, the one with the russet wings, is their Professor. He will step in immediately if he disagrees with their diagnosis or treatment. It is highly unlikely he will do so, however. The Qui handling your treatment are all highly experienced, fourth-year students. The opportunity to treat an alien patient such as yourself counts as valuable experience towards their final qualification.”

“That’s why it’s free, huh? Makes sense I guess. I don’t suppose many people volunteer to be treated by students, even if they are the ‘best of the best’. Personally, I’m just damned grateful to get treated at all. Though I would have thought I’d have heard about the existence of a ‘free clinic’ before now. It’s the kind of thing Meg would have mentioned to me.”

“It isn’t free as a rule,” Castiel explained quickly, thinking on his feet since his whole ‘story’ would collapse if Dean mentioned this ‘free’ clinic to his friend. “But Professor Gadreel here is an acquaintance of mine and responded positively to my suggestion that you presented a unique opportunity for learning.”

“Because I’m a human?” Dean challenged suspiciously. He was well aware that Earthers, whilst rare in this part of the galaxy, were still relatively frequent tourist visitors to Arthos.

“Forgive me,” Castiel said. “I used your designation rather than your species as an inducement. It is extremely rare for a biological Submissive of any type or species to present with actual physical injuries caused by an assault.”

Dean scowled but nodded his understanding of the point. Submissives, by definition, submitted. So they rarely, if ever, got hurt due to acts of violence. Well, definitely not to the extent of actual broken bones, at least. Physical assault of Submissives was socially unacceptable. Done publicly it was considered illegal. Dean suspected it happened frequently in private, but that was a totally different story, of course.

He was still offended though. Cas’s comment had suggested some fundamental bias relating to Submissives.

“Do the Qui subscribe to the notion of there being a fundamental physiological difference between biological Submissives and Dominants?” he asked, a little aggressively.

“Not generally,” Castiel replied. “The idea that an average individual’s designation is obvious from their physicality is old-fashioned discriminatory bias,” he said, as though he could read Dean’s mind. “A biological Submissive is usually far less likely to be physiologically ‘weaker’ than their Dominant than an elective submissive is. And even in the case of elective submissives, the strength discrepancy is usually caused by people choosing to buy into the myth. A case of physically weaker people choosing to identify as Submissives. Which is, of course, a totally different scenario. The whole concept of all Submissives being naturally physically ‘weaker’ is a complete invention. The qualities that denote a true Submissive are driven by psychological differences, often due to either chromosomal influences or environmental factors.”

“Then, if you believe that, what the fuck difference does my designation make to the medics here?” Dean challenged. “My injuries are physiological. I’m not here because I had an attack of the vapors.”

“You did faint,” Castiel pointed out, straight-faced. He waited until Dean bristled like an offended cat before letting an unfamiliar and surprisingly charming smile spread over his face.

It was intensely irritating, Dean decided, that the Qui was so damned attractive. Castiel’s eyes actually twinkled when he smiled, their already intense blue appearing to light with an inner glow. He also had the kind of straight white teeth that spoke of excellent childhood nutrition. Then again, Cas could hardly have grown so damned tall and broad on a diet of poverty. All of which was totally irrelevant anyway because “ I didn’t faint. I merely passed out through manly pain,” he insisted furiously.

“Of course,” Cas agreed. His damned eyes twinkled again. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Dean reminded him, refusing to be distracted. “Why exactly did this Gadreel guy agree to treat me?” 

Castiel looked slightly shifty for a moment, enough that Dean started to stiffen in alarm, and then with a sigh of apparent defeat said, “Because you are Subplex.”

That was enough to make Dean startle again. What had that insane fucker Rafe said? Something about him being a ‘Subplex’ rather than a ‘Submissive’? He’d been too busy at the time trying not to choke to death to worry about it. “What the fuck is a Subplex anyway?” he demanded.

It was Castiel’s turn to look shocked. His smile was swiftly replaced by a frown, and Dean refused to feel sorry about that, although he felt a weird twinge of genuine regret at seeing Castiel’s displeasure. 

Then Castiel’s expression cleared a little as he said, “Perhaps your people have a different word for it.” 

“For what?”

“The term Subplex is the historically accurate term for someone who is a perfect biological Submissive. Because you are incredibly rare and precious, your status warrants a specific title,” he explained.

“What on earth gives you the impression I’m ‘perfect’?” Dean asked, with a self-deprecating laugh. “I think you saw with your own eyes that I am just about the least submissive Submissive you’ve ever met.” 

“You are, indeed, quite uniquely wonderful,” Castiel agreed, earnestly. 

Dean blinked with astonishment. He hadn’t ever expected anyone to see his peculiar behavior as ‘wonderful’. Though, maybe Cas thought that because he was a Null. Perhaps to a non-designate, the fact Dean was ‘broken’ appeared to be a positive trait? Weird and unexpected, but he wasn’t going to argue with the big, black-winged Qui’s bizarre perspective because it felt nice, for the first time since he was twelve, to meet someone who genuinely seemed to approve of his unbridled behavior.

Then he reconsidered his own thought because Cain had been quietly supportive in his own way. Come to think of it, Charlie had seemed equally approving and yet her encouragement hadn’t felt like this. Hadn’t made his insides flip as though Castiel’s approval somehow validated him.

“So what made you, and that fucker Rafe, think I’m one of these ‘Subplex’ guys?”he demanded gruffly, impatiently pushing his own odd feelings aside.

Castiel reached out carefully, reverently, and traced the Luna Moth tattoo on Dean’s cheek. “You’re Polilla,” he said. “And I know, inexplicably, as such you are less familiar with being seen as ‘perfect’. We Tsalunniqui know that young worlds such as your own are so wealthy in Subplex that they can afford to differentiate between Polilla and Mariposa, but on a world such as Tsaluna, the minor difference between both rankings is seen as a trifling irrelevance. As Polilla you are so close to biological Submissive perfection that no Qui Dominant would perceive you as anything other than a genuine Subplex. 

“Sadly, those such as Rafe D’Viim see all Subplex as ‘things’ to be owned. Just, I suppose, as all races in the Federal Alliance see Mariposa as Status symbols to enhance their own ambitions. They fail to appreciate any of you, Mariposa or Polilla, for the wondrous marvels that you truly are. In historical times, as a Subplex, you would have been honored and revered, Dey’n. I sorrow greatly that you suffer from this wicked modernity.”

Dean coughed a bark of bitter laugher, feeling peculiarly regretful that he was about to wipe the strangely reverent expression off Castiel’s face.

“Sorry to break it to you, Buddy, but it seems you Tsalunniqui have gotten the wrong end of the stick. There’s some complete misunderstanding going on here. Probably fostered by Mariposa like Reney. Yeah, makes sense. Just like he’s using people’s confusion over the differences between Mariposa and Polilla training to run his profitable ‘entertainment’ business. Anyway, the point is that on Earth, and presumably the other young worlds too, Mariposa aren’t chosen because they are biological Submissives at all. The test is of genetic purity. All the Federal government is looking for is perfect genetic examples of their member races, so they can separate those genetic ‘throwbacks’ from the common gene pool to prevent further dilution of unique racial traits.” 

“That is a totally nonsensical idea,” Castiel said. “Genetic purity is neither possible nor desirable. Besides, although it is inarguably true that the effects of solar radiation over millennia corrupts the genetic coding that allows for Subplex and Praevalen, which is why Old Races such as the Qui are now bereft, cause is not effect. If genetic purity were the sole determiner of a Subplex, then the universe would have been originally populated _only_ by Subplex and Praevalen.”

“Tell me about it,” Dean agreed wholeheartedly. “The whole concept is scientific bullshit. I’ve been convinced for years that the whole thing is nothing more than a legal way for the government to pick and choose the cutest looking kids and turn them into obedient sex slaves for the rich and influential. The fact every single ‘genetically pure’ kid ‘coincidentally’ happens to be also a biological Submissive and stupidly attractive to boot? Well, that’s the biggest clue the whole thing is a scam, isn’t it? Statistically, it’s completely improbable that there aren’t ‘pure’ non-designates too.”

“You are remarkably perceptive,” Castiel said, his voice a low rumble of approval that absolutely did not make Dean’s heart do a happy flip-flop. “Even without access to the necessary facts to make a correct conclusion, the fact that you identified the ‘bullshit’ at all proves you to be considerably more intelligent than even my average student.”

“I’m not that smart,” Dean denied quickly, realizing it would be impossible to mention his advanced degree without outing himself not only as a Mariposa but one that someone had bought but never bothered to collect. As much as he was grateful it had happened, all things considered, such a clear and almost unprecedented rejection was hardly a selling point of his own worth either. “I’m from a backward planet in the ass-end of nowhere and find myself constantly out of my depth as I meet older races such as yours. I seem to come across new bizarre crap every single day, with absolutely no context to enable understanding.”

“Intelligence is not evidenced by knowledge, Dey’n, but by an individual’s thirst to be a philonoist.”

“A what?”

“A lover of learning,” Castiel explained.

“Cool,” Dean said, filing the word away for later use.

“See,” Cas said, with a smirk, as though he’d known exactly what Dean had just done.

“So, Subplex. Tell me about it. What does it mean. Tell me the ‘necessary facts’ that I’m apparently missing.” 

Castiel looked around them cautiously. Although none of the other Qui appeared to be close enough to listen, he didn’t want to run the risk their conversation might be overheard. 

“Not here,” he said. “Let me take you back to your accommodations first.” 

“No way,” Dean said, then rolled his eyes at Cas’s immediate look of hurt at the apparent rejection. “My boarding house was provided for me by Infernum. I already know Alastair was responsible for setting me up and I don’t trust him not to do something to shut me up if he finds out Raphael didn’t manage to snatch me. I need to keep my head down until tomorrow night. Though it’s so late it’s probably tomorrow already. Whatever. Point is, I need to talk to my boss before I do anything. I’m reasonably certain Crowley knows nothing about what went down tonight ‘cos it would make no commercial sense for him to sell me off like that. I’m too good for business.”

“I have noticed,” Castiel agreed dryly. “But, yes, I agree it seems improbable that Crowley was aware of what happened tonight. It certainly would be inadvisable for you to return within Alastair’s sphere of influence until Crowley is advised of what has happened. Perhaps, if you would not consider the offer too bold, I might suggest a solution?” 

“What solution?” Dean asked, a little suspiciously. 

“I have accommodations over the University library. The space is large and surprisingly pleasant, as long as you don’t object to the presence of enough books and artifacts to make the entire Anex look more like a curiosity shop than a home. My last flatmates found the whole environment too crowded, dry and dusty for comfort, so I currently rent the place alone despite it having several spare rooms. Fortunately, the University does not expect me to cover the cost of the unused space. It is however vacant and available. At least for one night, if you find the conditions equally unpleasant and cannot bear to stay there for longer than that.”

It was another necessary lie, of course. The entire Library, including the Annex, was owned by the N’Vaks, as were most of the other University freehold buildings. Castiel didn’t pay rent and had never shared the vast space with another person except for Gabriel’s tendency to stay over whenever he had drunk a little too much. 

“I have a question,” Dean said. “You have the genetic appearance of a Qui Praevalen, yes? Or is that just a myth kind of thing?”

Castiel appeared to consider the question thoughtfully before replying. “It is accurate to say that all recorded historical instances of Praevalen within my species evidenced a similar coloring and size to myself. Consequently, there are definitely those who make certain assumptions about me based purely on my physical appearance.” 

“Which probably sucks, given that you’re Null,” Dean said, sympathetically. “So, I guess you understand a little about how it feels to be judged by your genes rather than as an individual. “

“I can honestly say, yes, I am familiar with designate bias,” Castiel agreed carefully.

“So forgive me being personal. Normally it would be none of my business, but under the circumstances I really need to know the answer before agreeing to go anywhere with you and, honestly, I have absolutely no idea what you’re going to say because you are a complete mystery to me, Cas. Can I ask you, are you completely non-designate or do you self-identify as a designation? And, if so, what do you identify as?”

He really had no idea what the answer would be. He wasn’t even sure what answer he was hoping to hear. Castiel was such a bizarre, eclectic mix of a person. He had the build of a Dominant – and yes, Dean knew that by thinking that he was guilty of the same prejudice he’d criticised Cas for but, sue him, it was still blatantly true. The Qui was nearly seven feet tall and although he appeared lean, rather than muscle-bound, and wore clothes deliberately intended to conceal his strength, the way he had picked Dean up and flown with him proved those clothes hid some serious musculature. He had definitely acted like a protective Dom. He’d literally flown to Dean’s rescue and used some highly illegal weapon to somehow blast Rafe out of existence entirely. He had flown Dean to this clinic for treatment, had managed to get him healed for free and Dean could see the way the other Qui were currently giving him as wide a berth as they would if he were a full-blown Dominant radiating ‘keep the fuck away from my Submissive’ pheromones in a wide radius around them. 

Yet Castiel was not only Null but was gentle and almost painfully polite – not traits Dean was familiar with encountering in Doms - and although he no longer seemed as ‘shy’ as Dean had previously imagined him to be, his confidence wasn’t the overblown cockiness of a Dom but more the natural take-charge persona of, well, a dutiful Professor charged with the welfare of a student.

Hell, maybe Castiel didn’t even see him as a Submissive or even a potential sexual partner at all. Maybe this was all just teacher Cas looking out for someone barely older than one of his own students. Perhaps all of this care and concern was just a good guy being a standup citizen in protection of some hapless idiot who had just almost gotten himself raped and kidnapped on a city street.

He was surprised by how disappointed he felt at the possibility of that particular scenario being true. 

Castiel cocked his head and looked at him carefully, his eyes narrowed in thought, and then he grinned, wide enough to display his gums as well as his strong, white teeth. “Although I stress my offer of accommodation is perfectly without any expectation, that you are welcome to stay for as long as you like even should you prefer to avoid my company entirely – and the Annex is definitely large enough that such avoidance would be easily achievable - my honest answer to your question is I most assuredly do self-identify as a Dominant.” Then he chuckled, a little self-consciously, and added, “but I fear I should also confess that I am about as dominant a Dominant as you are a submissive Submissive, Dey’n. I fear both of us are uniquely socially-unacceptable examples of our designations.”

Dean chewed that over a moment, finding himself more relieved than worried by Castiel’s admission.

No, relieved wasn’t quite the right word.

Intrigued was more to the point.

If he wasn’t planning on leaving Tsaluna completely in less than a month, he suspected he’d allow that intrigued to tip over into _interested_.

So it was probably just as well that he was leaving.

He needed a Dominant in his life like a fish needed a bicycle. Why he’d even consider the idea only a couple of hours after Rafe’s attack was, frankly, bizarre. Surely between his experiences with Michael and his near-miss with Rafe, the only logical and smart decision would be to cry off relationships forever. He wasn’t the kind of submissive who was just waiting for the right person to swoop in and rescue him from his mundane existence and miraculously solve all of his problems with the offer of a home and the healing application of a magic cock.

Though he was intrigued whether Castiel was big everywhere. Whether Castiel was as gentle in the bedroom as he was outside of it. Whether it was truly possible for someone to be a _kind_ Dominant.

Stupid, really. Dean had always had a vague, childish fantasy that there might be a type of Dominant who welcomed the idea of a Submissive who needed to be romanced rather than subdued, who wanted a Submissive who desired a partner strong enough to take what they wanted but gentle enough to ask for it instead. Dean had never really believed such a mythical creature existed. 

He still didn’t.

But somewhere deep inside he suspected this peculiar, huge but kindly Qui might be the closest he might ever come to that imaginary ideal.

What if the answer had always lain in choosing an elective Dominant rather than a biological one? Perhaps, with the absence of pheromones to confuse the situation, to blow desire out of proportion, it would be possible to have the best of both worlds. 

Maybe a relationship with someone who only ‘played’ Dominant when it mattered was the solution to the problem.

And if he was wrong, if Castiel turned out to be an asshole after all… well, he could just chalk it down to yet another learning experience. It certainly wouldn’t be the biggest mistake he’d ever made.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to enter a casual, temporary relationship with Cas. A few weeks of no-strings fun. Perhaps that, more than abstinence, would be the best cure for his lingering issues over his relationship with Michael. A chance, finally, to see whether it was possible to have a real, open honest connection with someone. 

Well, maybe not totally honest, given that Cas thought he was a Polilla, but Cas himself had said that the Qui saw no true distinction between Polilla and Mariposa, so the lie would be so tiny it would surely be totally inconsequential. And there were no laws that would allow a Null to ever trick him into a legally binding permanent contract. Even if he did find himself falling for the gentle seduction of the History Professor, it would be a temporary relationship of legal equals. 

For the first, and perhaps only, time in his life, Dean was being offered the opportunity to experience how it would have been to be born a ‘normal’ person. 

All he had to do was find a way to convince Cas that his interest was genuine, rather than a form of repayment. Polilla were notorious for treating every relationship as a transaction, so the fact he was already ‘indebted’ to the black-winged Qui wasn’t the best way to start on an even footing. 

“I apologize,” Castiel said, a little stiffly, when Dean’s silent contemplation went on for far too long. “Perhaps admitting that truth has caused our situation to be untenable for you. How can I help? Would you prefer if I make enquiries amongst my colleagues and see if there is one who can offer you alternative accommodation for a night or two whilst I establish whether Crowley was complicit in Alastair’s perfidy?”

“You’d do that? Approach Crowley for me, I mean?”

“Of course. It would be insanely dangerous for you to approach him yourself. If he can satisfy me of his innocence and if he deals appropriately with Alastair, then at that point you may return to Infernum to work if you still wish to do so.” 

Dean narrowed his eyes with irritation. “I ‘may’?” he demanded dangerously. “You have no right to tell me what I may or may not do,” he reminded the Qui. 

Castiel startled, took a deep breath and then said, “I misspoke. I should have said ‘you may _safely_ return’, which changes the context completely, does it not? You are correct, of course. I have no right to prevent you from acting in any recklessly stupid way that you choose to do.” 

“Recklessly stupid?” Dean challenged, arching a brow. 

“A point of fact. Not an implied criticism. As an emancipated free citizen, you are free to choose any action that does not break the Law. Even a recklessly stupid one,” he said, his tone deceptively mild.

“Enough already,” Dean snarled. “I agree. You can check it out before I go back. Just bear in mind that if I don’t go back there, I’ll end up arrested as an itinerant. Which, you’ll undoubtedly agree, would be equally recklessly stupid.”

Despite Dean’s graceless capitulation, Castiel had the audacity to look altogether too pleased with himself. 

Dean, however, found he rather liked the way the ‘argument’ had gone also. Castiel had done his Dom thing, been all protective and forceful and shit, but he’d won with polite logic and reason - and a little sarcasm - rather than threats of violence. Dean thought he could probably learn to enjoy that kind of topping. 

Maybe he had a bit of a ‘Daddy’ kink. 

Then he shuddered. Maybe he had been sadly lacking in having a parental figure but since the reason for that had been John Winchester selling him for credits like a prize cow, Dean thought the less he considered Cas in the same context as John, the better.

“Okay,” he said. “I accept your offer. Both offers.”

“Both offers?” Castiel queried carefully.

“I accept your offer of assistance _and_ a night’s accommodation,” Dean clarified. “Don’t make me regret either, or I’ll kick your ass.”

“Duly noted,” Castiel said, though his lips twitched with humor. “I will fly us…”

“Woah. Time out. We walk, okay? That part is non-negotiable. No more flying.”

“Very well,” Castiel agreed easily. “We shall walk to the Annex. It is not far.” 

It wasn’t far at all.

It would even have been possible to reach the building faster by following a series of interconnecting passages between the School of Medicine and the library but Castiel chose not to take that route for several reasons.

Firstly, students notoriously wandered the halls at all hours of the day and night - the latter usually because they were sneaking back to their digs after imbibing far too much alcohol - and the fewer people they encountered, the less chance there was of him meeting someone who might be crass enough to ‘congratulate’ him on his ‘acquisition’ of a Subplex. More to the point, they might do so in FedStan. 

Secondly, the resultant rumors would inevitably reach Carolus and the last thing Castiel needed was his father swooping down on them and demanding an introduction to Dey’n. The idea that Castiel might finally have given in to peer pressure enough to conform to the expectations of his designation would cause his father to react with an indecent amount of excitement. 

But, most importantly, Dey’n had every reason to be wary of both Castiel and his offer, so being led off into a rabbit warren of dark passages would hardly be conducive to engendering a sense of security and safety. By approaching the Annex from the street, by showing Dey’n the private entrance that allowed access to the Annex without any necessity to pass through the public library, Castiel hoped he would demonstrate that the Annex was an easily accessible – and, more to the point, escapable – building. 

Bad enough that their fledgling connection was built, of necessity, on a series of white lies. Those deceptions were, sadly, unavoidable. But in every way that he did have the ability to ensure, Castiel wanted every other aspect of their relationship to be clear and open. He had to make it totally and abundantly clear to the Polilla that the offers of his help, and the accommodation, were not contingent on any expression of ‘gratitude’ .

A couple of times, as they had spoken, he had received the clear impression that Dey’n might possibly be attracted to him. Unless that was just wishful thinking on his part. Either way, though, it was critical that any interaction between them was instigated only by the gorgeous Polilla and, definitely, only if it was done freely and without any sense of obligation.

He had to remember, at all times, that Dey’n was Polilla, not Mariposa. He would have been raised to see sexual relationships as negotiations, as transactions, so Castiel had to be absolutely clear that such irrelevances as money and accommodation were not part of _his_ negotiation. They were gifts, offered free and clear, without any expectation of repayment. So he would have to be extremely careful not to return any expression of interest that Dey’n made. At least not until they had established a sense of parity between them.

“I had actually forgotten how beautiful Arthos is,” Dey’n said, as they walked together through the nearly deserted streets. Morning had only just begun to break, the rising sun weak in the sky but already casting the white marbled buildings in hues of pale apricot. “I remember how my first sight of the City blew me away. I thought it was the most gorgeous place I’d ever seen. Weird to think I’d forgotten that entirely after just a couple of weeks of mundanity. How quickly wonders become commonplace, huh?”

“I don’t suppose traversing the neglected alleys between your residence and the back door of Infernum is particularly conducive to retaining a vision of Arthos as a place of beauty,” Castiel suggested. “Like all capital cities, Arthos has a dark underbelly that tourists rarely see.” 

“It’s kind of like theatre, isn’t it?” Dey’n agreed. “Everything looks so spectacular and otherworldly as long as you don’t get close enough to see the greasepaint.” 

“A good analogy,” Castiel agreed. “If I were not conscious of the fact neither of us have slept, I would suggest a short diversion to the central plaza of the University district. At this time of day, with few Tsalunniqui flying above the City to interrupt the view, it is possible to see the full effect of the architectural design that coined the phrase ‘the infinite city’. From the plaza, you can see the way the buildings are laid out to create an optical illusion that Arthos spreads as far as the horizon itself in endless waves of white arches. Another morning, perhaps,” he offered tentatively, all too aware the offer was dangerously close to suggesting a ‘second date’ and that Dean could rightfully point out that he’d only agreed to stay one night anyway… a night that, strictly speaking, was already almost over.

“I’d like that,” Dey’n agreed easily. 

Castiel decided punching the air in triumph would be inappropriate and beneath his dignity. He settled for a quiet smile.

He had forgotten the back stairwell to the Annex was old, the steps well-worn, moss-covered and crumbling in places, making them a little treacherous in the damp of early morning. He made a mental note to contact a Tsalun contractor to repair the damage. He hadn’t used the stairs himself in years, preferring to simply fly directly to the doorway above if he was approaching the building from outside. More usually he accessed it internally from the library anyway, but he didn’t think Dey’n would appreciate having to pass through the library security gates. The Tsalun employed to guard the university’s few remaining precious books could be a little overzealous about double-checking the ID of off-worlders, and Castiel was sure Dey’n would be wary of identity checks for a while after his unfortunate experience in the alley.

Tsalun, at least those employed in law enforcement, were tediously rigid regarding their interpretation of the law. A rigidity that often caused them to act to the letter of the law rather than its intent. That, however, wasn’t their greatest failing. Worse was their tendency to interpret the laws they enforced, interpretations often colored by their own prejudices. As had clearly happened earlier.

It infuriated Castiel that it had happened at all. The Federation - and it’s officers - were supposed to treat all citizens equally and, on the surface of it, the Law supported that equality, but in practice discrimination against all biological Submissives was rife. If Dey’n had approached the Tsalun to apprehend Rafe in the same fashion, he would have been told off like a misbehaving child. Yet how could all designations claim equal status if the default position of the authorities was to act as though a dominant’s wishes automatically took precedence?

“No wonder you hardly drink in the club,” Dey’n laughed, as he slipped slightly on one of the steps and was only saved from falling by his strong grip on the handrail. “I’d hate having to climb this thing drunk.”

“I usually fly,” Castiel reminded him. “Though the Tsalun frown on flying drunk so it’s best avoided.” 

“Is that a thing? Drunk flying, I mean? Do you get fined for that kind of thing in Arthos?” 

“I don’t do it. I am a respectable, responsible, Tenured Professor,” Castiel said, with a repressive frown. Then his eyes twinkled again as he said, “If anyone says otherwise, my friend Gabriel in particular, they are to be considered highly unreliable sources of information and ignored completely.”

Dey’n snorted. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Respectability.”

Castiel paused at the keypad of the door and fiddled with it for a moment before pressing enter and stepping inside. “Just wave your wrist over the scanner,’ he called back. “I just told it to accept the next scanned I.D. as being henceforth authorized for free permanent access.” 

Dey’n did so, but he frowned even as he complied. “Hardly worthwhile, since I’ll be leaving as soon as you sort things out with Crowley,” he pointed out.

“I prefer you to have the option to come and go as you wish,” Castiel explained as Dey’n walked inside only to come to an abrupt halt as he took in his immediate surroundings. “For instance, you may wish to flee immediately,” Castiel commented dryly, as he saw the look of shocked surprise on Dey’n’s face.

“Hot damn, you weren’t kidding, Cas. Hoarding is usually indicative of an underlying mental illness, you know? Well, unless you’re a dragon, I guess.”

“I have a habit of collecting that which other people consider of little value,” Castiel admitted, with a sigh. “Sadly, on Tsaluna that incorporates almost every book and artifact from our past. With every passing year, more volumes are discarded from the stacks below. Not all have been dropped from the syllabus, of course. Many have simply been digitized for convenience making the originals ‘surplus’ to requirement. Personally, though, I feel we sacrifice too much in our endless search for convenience. Nothing feels the same way as searching manually for information in an original book. Also,” he added, his expression darkening, “I find that books subtly change after they have been digitized. People take it upon themselves to alter the copies of the originals. They claim they are making them more accessible, that simplifying the language aids modern understanding and that outdated concepts and attitudes woven throughout the original narratives detracts from a student’s acceptance of the intended message of the book. Personally, I consider such actions to be butchery.” 

“Censorship would probably be a more appropriate word,” Dey’n suggested, with a shrug.

“Exactly,” Castiel said, with surprise at his perception. Even Gabriel had taken a lot of convincing to see the process as being as insidious as he himself believed it to be. 

“So, um, exactly how illegal is this collection?” Dey’n asked, waving at the books haphazardly stacked around the room.

Castiel stiffened and looked at him cautiously. “What do you mean?” 

“Well, I could simply say I meant the obvious fire hazard,” Dean said, “Since navigating this hallway would definitely be problematic in an emergency and I’m assuming the rest of your apartment is pretty similarly crammed. But, really, it strikes me that if the authorities are deliberately redacting these books, I can’t see they’d be happy to know you’ve kept all the originals.” 

“I don’t know,” Castiel admitted. “I have not yet tested the theory. Very few people are aware of my ‘hoarding’ and those that are aware simply see it as simply the peculiar attempt of a very boring Professor of Antiquities to cling desperately to the past, rather than a deliberate act of sedition. The layers of dust on the volumes are not indicative of lazy housekeeping, Dey’n. I deliberately create the impression these volumes are kept merely due to their age, rather than me finding any particular value in their contents. That way, I can hide them in plain sight, as it were.”

Dey’n whistled under his breath. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t read Quian. I would never have realized any particular significance to these books if you hadn’t admitted it to me.”

“Because in this way, small as it is, I can give you a degree of power over me,” Castiel explained simply. “I do not know that you disseminating this information will truly bring harm to me. I suspect it would result in the destruction of these books, however, and they are greatly precious to me. I feel it is important, given the unfair and immoral disparity between our status within society, that it is crucial for you to have a genuine way in which to balance the power difference between us. If nothing else, this knowledge will ensure that you feel safe to remain here even should you choose not to even offer me a modicum of friendship, let alone any other perceived obligation which definitely does not exist.”

“Like a condom, huh?” 

“What?”

“Giving me the details of your secret vice as a form of sexual protection?” Dey’n suggested cheekily. 

Castiel flushed slightly, even though he supposed that was exactly what he had done. Rather than reply, he led Dey’n past the piles of books into the main living area. Although it was less crowded than the hallway, there wasn’t a surface or a spare piece of floor that wasn’t stacked with books or artifacts. Most of the seating was accessible though and there were distinct easily navigable paths through to the kitchen, bathroom and the doorways of the bedrooms. Most of which, admittedly, were crammed full of even more books but, because Gabriel had a habit of sleeping over on occasion, one of the rooms – in addition to his own bedroom – was relatively bare.

It was that room which he led Dey’n to. The room had the further advantage of its own en-suite bathroom – one of the reasons Gabriel had nominated it to be the ‘guest’ room – and Castiel was pretty sure he’d laundered the sheets since Gabe’s last visit. 

“I hope this is adequate,” he said, gesturing at the interior. “Obviously feel free to help yourself to anything in the kitchen, but I thought you’re probably exhausted and would prefer to sleep first. The door has a lock and bolts,” he added hastily. “You can be assured of your total safety. There is also a vid-com. Should you feel even slightly ill at ease at any point, feel welcome to summon the Tsalun City Guards to your assistance.” 

“Call the cops to tramp through your apartment filled with illicit literature?” Dey’n queried wryly.

“Well, obviously I would rather you didn’t,” Castiel admitted. “But I hope the fact that you have that option will enable you to feel secure enough to get some much-needed rest. I am rather exhausted too and I have a lecture to give in a few hours. I will endeavor not to wake you when I leave. Feel free to help yourself to food and make use of any and all parts of the Annex whilst I am gone. Do not be concerned if I am late arriving back. I will endeavor to see Crowley at Infernum after my obligations at the University are completed. And then,” he added, as he saw a frown forming on Dean’s brow, “I promise I will explain the definition of Subplex to you. But not now. We are both too tired for further conversation.”

Dey’n accepted that without argument, fortunately. The Polilla paused in the doorway of the bedroom for a moment, staring back at him with an odd thoughtful expression on his face. And then, so quickly that Castiel didn’t have a chance to even react, he darted forward, reached up on tiptoes and planted a soft, fleeting kiss on Castiel’s lips.

He was still blinking in astonishment when Dey’n disappeared into the guest room, closing the door firmly behind him.

As he heard the lock activating and the bolts being drawn, he finally let go the breath he was holding and allowed himself to lick his tongue gently over his lower lip as though to taste the Polilla. 

This was, he decided, either the smartest or stupidest thing he’d ever done.

Only time would tell him which.

Gabriel hurried through the crowded atrium, juggling a couple of hot drinks and a bag full of powdered sweet cakes. He’d purchased a family-sized bag of the delicacies, justifying his self-indulgence with the need to soothe the worry he’d felt on receiving Castiel’s text.

His friend apparently ‘needed to talk’. More to the point, Castiel wanted them to meet in the privacy of his father’s private study room. Since Gabriel knew Carolus was away from Arthos for a few days, so couldn’t himself be the reason for the chosen location of the meeting, Gabriel was relatively certain that the only other reason that made any sense for Castiel suggesting that particular room was that Carolus‘s private study was the only part of the entire publically accessible University that was not monitored by the insidious security cameras that constantly ‘protected’ the occupants of all other rooms.

He could be wrong, of course. Castiel usually conducted their most ‘sensitive’ conversations in the security of his unmonitored private Annex. The fact that Castiel hadn’t requested to meet him there could mean that Gabriel was worrying over nothing.

Still, any excuse for sweetcakes was a good excuse. 

But one look at his friend’s face when he finally arrived at the Study room caused Gabriel’s stomach to drop.

“What’s happened?” he demanded urgently, as soon as he’d closed and locked the door behind him.

“I’m not exactly sure,” Castiel said. “But I think I murdered someone last night.”

Gabriel was pleased he’d already put the drinks and cakes down on the table between them. “Come again?”

Castiel quickly told him about Meg approaching him in Infernum, about how he had somehow unerringly (if slightly belatedly) located Dey’hahn in an alleyway behind the club, how he had arrived just when the Polilla’s valiant efforts to defend himself had ultimately come to naught, how he had been filled with an almost insane fury at the sight of the strange Dominant holding Dey’hahn by the throat like a predator. How the sight of Dey’hahn’s injuries had caused something dark and primal inside himself to take over.

“And so I killed him,” Castiel said. 

Gabriel swallowed heavily, then said, “Sounds like a righteous death to me. The asshole was assaulting a Federation Citizen. So what if the boy’s a Polilla? He still can’t be physically assaulted. Whatever may or may not happen in private, behind closed doors, public violence towards any Submissive is considered an unforgivable sin. Since they are invariably such delicate flowers,” he added, and was rewarded when Castiel gave a reluctant chuckle despite the seriousness of the situation. “Which means you acted, like any responsible member of the public, in defense of a clearly ‘helpless’ victim of crime. I know the Tsalun can be officious bastards, but I can’t see how they could have accused you of murder under the circumstances.”

“The Tsalun haven’t accused me of anything. I haven’t reported my actions to them.”

“Um… so… um… what did you do with the body? Because if you just left it there unreported there would already be a city-wide hue and cry and I’d already have heard about it. Maybe… well, maybe you just _thought_ you killed him. Maybe you left him there and he woke up and limped home with his tail between his legs. He could hardly report what you did without incriminating himself,” Gabriel suggested hopefully.

“There was no 'body' to dispose of,” Castiel replied heavily. “Somehow, I… well, I appear to have simply disintegrated him entirely. Whatever I did, and I admit the whole situation is still a little hazy in my mind, there was nothing left of him afterward except an impression of his wings burned onto the wall behind him.”

“Fucking hell,” Gabriel breathed. “You’re claiming you went full-on mythological Praevalen smitey on his ass?”

“That, unfortunately, appears to be the case,” Castiel admitted. “I cannot think of any other explanation for what occurred.”

“So you’re claiming Dey’hahn isn’t just a Subplex, but is somehow one who retains enough of his intrinsic nature to have caused an automatic sympathetic response from your Praevalen instincts?”

“I don’t know for sure. I don’t even see how it is possible and yet I cannot deny the evidence of what I have experienced. I saw him in mortal danger and my defense of him was not a choice. It was an obligation. My actions were performed in a haze of righteous fury as though he _made_ me react as I did. Though I do not claim he was responsible for my behavior. He did not consciously do anything to influence my reaction. He apparently doesn’t even know what a Subplex is. He didn’t see me attack the Dom. He was almost unconscious from pain and oxygen deprivation at the time. When he saw the outcome of my ‘attack’, he naturally assumed I had used an illegal particle beam weapon to save him. I did not exactly put a great deal of effort into my attempt to disabuse him of that impression.”

Gabriel reached for a couple of sweetcakes and virtually inhaled them like a drug as he considered his friend’s tale. “Do you have any idea how potentially dangerous this situation is?” he finally said. “Assuming your whole hypothesis about the Federation’s centuries-long attempt to prevent Praevalen like you from ever accessing your true potential, these new abilities of yours are going to sign the boy’s death warrant.”

Then he leaped backward with a yelp of terror as Castiel’s eyes blazed blue fire and the heavy oak table between them literally exploded.

Castiel looked as horrified as Gabriel felt. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I appear to be a little out of sorts today. I haven’t yet established a way to successfully control these new instincts Dey’n has awoken in me.”

“You owe me a new drink,” Gabriel muttered, though thankfully the sweetcakes had survived the explosion. He stuffed another one in his mouth, deciding a rush of blood sugar would help his state of understandable shock.

“I owe you more than that,” Castiel admitted solemnly. “And you are absolutely right. It is primarily Dey’n who is at risk. As a N’Vak, I am considered virtually untouchable by the Qui, it is highly unlikely even the Tsalun would dare to criticize me verbally and, as a Praevalen, I automatically have protections in the Law that prevent even a Federal authority moving openly against me. But this new power, these instincts, these abilities, that I have barely begun to tap into, are not mine, Gabriel. According to all of my research, they are loaned to me by my Subplex. This is the truth of the matter. This may be my previously untapped potential but without a Subplex they are inaccessible. So this power is not mine. It is his.

“And this secret is NO secret, because the Mariposa tradition, and the deliberate systematic destruction of all submissive rights throughout the known Universe must have been driven by shadowy figures determined to ensure that no Subplex retained the ability to lend their power to any Praevalen.”

“I would mock you as a conspiracy theorist if I hadn’t just seen what you did to that poor, innocent table with my own eyes,” Gabriel replied. “Let me dissect your statement though. Unless I misheard you, which I highly doubt, you just called Dey’hahn, or Dey’n as you call him, _your_ Subplex. Is there another confession you’re due to make about what you got up to last night?” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“Not in the way you are inferring,” Castiel replied repressively. “I merely took him to obtain medical assistance and secured him safe accommodation to reside in until such time as I manage to resolve the situation of his ongoing employment at Infernum.”

“In the middle of the night? What safe accommodation?” Gabriel demanded suspiciously.

“I may have secreted him in my guest room,” Castiel admitted.

“MY room? Hot damn. You smooth mover, Cassie.”

“It’s not like that. I merely need to know he’s safe. I find his well being to be my primary motivator at this time.”

“So you haven’t already claimed him as your Subplex?” Gabriel asked, wanting to clarify the exact situation.

“Firstly, he is a person, not a ‘thing’ to be claimed,” Castiel responded, a little sharply. “Secondly, it would have been a little problematical anyway considering he currently believes I am a Null.”

“Damn. I forgot all about the blockers. Woah. You have at least told him you identify as Dom, haven’t you? I mean, at least so he can begin to consider you as a potential mate? I mean it’s hardly going to take long before someone points out to him that he’s living with a Prae. At least make sure he knows you’re interested in him in that way, or this whole thing is going to blow up in your face.”

“It is possible that he will never wish to be my mate anyway. Just because he appears to be _my_ ideal mate does not necessarily mean he will ever feel the same way about me. I will respect whatever decision he makes.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes impatiently. “Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself? Because I don’t believe a word of it. You want to climb him like a tree, Cassie, don’t you?”

“It doesn’t matter what I want,” Castiel snapped. “I refuse to play the role society expects of me. I intend to treat Dey’n as a Subplex was always meant to be treated, with complete and total respect. You’re right though. The deception, however well-meant, was a mistake. I need to tell him who and what I am. I need to explain to him about the ‘blockers’. I will, if he permits, continue to take them so that we can explore, together, whether there is any potential between us. I have already allowed a small web of white lies to color our relationship thus far. This, I now believe, has been a terrible mistake. The more I consider my behavior, the more ashamed of myself I become. And now, with you forcing me to consider the genuine danger he is in, I cannot justify allowing him to remain ignorant of the risks. Yet I cannot explain them adequately without full disclosure.

“Besides, this entire deception has been done for my sake, rather than his, and I need to come clean with him before it becomes an insurmountable obstacle between us. I have already promised to explain about Subplex to him tonight. I will take that opportunity to confess my own true designation. Hopefully, he will understand and forgive my hesitation in proffering that information earlier.”

“He’ll probably be frightened of what you are, Cassie, and that will most likely cause him to be angry, but I don’t think it's too late. It’s not like you’ve let the ‘misunderstanding’ go on for weeks, is it? I think it’s for the best to get it over and done with, sooner rather than later,” Gabriel agreed. “I apologize for my part in it. I never should have suggested the blockers in the first place.”

Castiel shook his head firmly. “Had I not registered as Null when I came to his rescue, I don’t believe he would have accepted my assistance. He certainly wouldn’t have allowed me to take him to the clinic. So I don’t regret what has happened. I just find myself unable to continue the deception any longer. As soon as I have resolved the situation with Crowley, I will return home and tell Dey’n everything.”

The pretty Deltazoid, Meg, was waiting for him when he arrived at Infernum and he felt momentarily guilty that he hadn’t thought to let her know sooner that Dey’n was safe. Fortunately, she was so relieved to see him that she waved off his apologies as soon as he assured her that Dey’n had survived the experience barely scathed.

“Crowley definitely doesn’t know what went down,” she said, “because he’s been going crazy about Dey’hahn not turning up for work today. He’s in a complete snit. The boarding house have confirmed Dey’hahn never checked in last night, so Crowley is blaming both me and Alastair for him going missing.”

“He is blaming you?” Castiel demanded furiously.

“Ah, it’s no problem. He just bit my head off a bit for staying here and letting Dey’hahn leave on his own. Since he had never thought to ensure Dey’hahn was always accompanied, I wasn’t doing it under orders anyway. So he’s more annoyed with himself for that oversight than he is with me. Let’s face it, I’m just a non-designate Delt. If he was seriously angry with me, he’d have fired me. He’s going at it in his office with Alastair, though. He’s kicking his ass about having the illegal ‘shut-in’. But, honestly, it's obvious he doesn’t know the real truth about what happened last night. I think he believes Dey’hahn took the opportunity to simply clear off because he had a better offer, so he’s furious about the drop in revenue and is using the excuse of the ‘shut-in’ situation to let off steam.”

Castiel was both relieved and disappointed. Relieved because he knew Dey’n would be happier to learn Crowley had not been complicit. Disappointed because this probably removed any reason for Dey’n not to return to Infernum. And as ashamed of himself as he was for feeling he had any right to mandate Dey’n’s behavior, the idea of other Qui openly lusting over his Subplex caused unfamiliar feelings of jealousy to tingle through his whole being like waves of static charge.

Which was totally unreasonable, of course. Dey’n was not his. And even if Dey’n were his, Castiel would have no moral right to dictate his choice of profession or behavior regardless of the legal authority he would be offered by such a relationship.

Even in the extremely remote chance that Dey’n responded positively to Castiel’s full confession, even should the Polilla eventually forgive him and consent to formally become his Subplex, Castiel would never attempt to assert his authority over Dey’n’s behavior. The best he could hope for was Dey’n voluntarily choosing to pander to Castiel’s insecurity by agreeing not to return to Infernum.

Well, assuming Crowley dealt with Alastair’s perfidy appropriately of course

Castiel honestly didn’t believe he’d be able to stand-by and allow Dey’n to return to the club if Alastair remained there too. Even if that meant he would have to take direct action against the Tsalun himself. It was terrifying how, within a single day, he’d not only accidentally killed someone but was now seriously considering the idea of doubling his body count.

Did he seriously believe that choosing to kill Alastair would be a less morally repugnant idea than using his own designation as a weapon against Dey’n’s autonomy?

Apparently so.

Which was a sobering thought.

Meg led him to Crowley’s office, then made herself scarce.

He knocked on the door and entered without waiting for an invitation. Crowley immediately paused his haranguing of Alastair and frowned at him with irritated contemplation. “If it isn’t the boy-king himself,” he drawled. “I heard a rumor you’d been sniffing around here lately. I had a suspicion the little pretty might draw you out of seclusion. It was the main reason I brought him on board. Sadly, you’ve missed your opportunity for now. The little fucker’s done a runner. So we’re both shit out of luck until I track him down.” Then he paused and frowned more suspiciously, “Unless _you’re_ the thief. That would make sense. Still, I had expected you to at least act like a gentleman about it. Approach me man to man, as it were, rather than simply help yourself. What do you want? His employment contract ripping up? That’ll cost you. I at least want a finders fee, N’Vak.”

“Funny you should mention ‘finder’s fees’,” Castiel replied coolly. “Because it just so happens that I _have_ found something you might feel belongs to you. Though, obviously, Dey’hahn is nobody’s ‘property’. Especially not Rafe D’Viim’s.”

Alastair paled slightly. “I’ll leave you to talk in private, boss,” he said, moving towards the door.

Castiel blocked his path, his seven-foot frame easily dwarfing the fleeing Tsalun’s. “I think this conversation concerns you too,” he growled. “Considering the fact that Lord D’Viim told me everything before he fled back to his estate.” He was quite proud of how easily the lie tripped off his tongue.

“He was lying. I had nothing to do with it,” Alastair protested.

“Nothing to do with what?” Crowley demanded.

“Your employee took it upon himself to sell your bartender to a customer last night. And I don’t just mean for the evening,” Castiel said bluntly. “The only reason Dey’hahn is still in Arthos is that I, with the assistance of a more loyal member of your staff, prevented the kidnapping from taking place. She assures me that this is far from the first time such a thing has occurred. You apparently have somewhat of a history of ‘losing’ biological Submissives from your payroll, Crowley.”

An expression of thunderous fury on his face, Crowley surged to his feet and approached Alastair. His right hand shot out and grabbed Alastair around the throat. “You? YOU’RE the reason I’ve been losing staff? You’ve been breaking the Law? Using MY premises to do illegal slave trading? Risking MY license?”

It was telling, Castiel thought, that Crowley didn’t seem to care about any of the individuals involved, nor even the actual slave trading of submissives. He seemed completely livid about the financial loss and threat to himself though.

Alastair was babbling wildly, denials, apologies, excuses, saying anything and everything in his attempt to escape Crowley’s furious grasp. The fact he was bigger and taller than Crowley appeared irrelevant. The strength of the smaller Tsalun was astounding.

There was a loud, sickening cracking noise and then Crowley let go, allowing Alastair’s body to slump to the floor, his head at an unnatural angle, his bulging eyes now lifeless.

“You killed him,” Castiel said, unnecessarily.

Crowley’s black gimlet eyes regarded him unapologetically. “If I sent a message to the D’Viim estate, how likely am I to get a reply?” he asked pointedly. 

Castiel stiffened. “What makes you imagine I…”

“You’re a fucking Praevalen. The rest of the idiots around here don’t seem to have any comprehension what that truly means but I assure you that I do, Misha C’lln.”

It felt like a bucket of ice water upended over his head. This creepy, cocky, peculiarly strong Tsalun had just called Castiel by the name he had published the notorious article on Subplex/Praevalen synergies. The article many of his peers considered the most heretical piece of literature ever written.

“Oh don’t look so shocked,” Crowley snorted. “And calm down. I don’t want to end up the way that I imagine D’Viim did. I know exactly who and what you are. You’ve interested me for a very long time. I find survival always depends on working out the identity of the real movers and shakers. You’ve always been a curiosity to me. Well, no, I’m lying. I only really started paying attention to you when you started using the name Ll’ell. Such a curious choice. The last, and only, Qui Praevalen adopting the name of his birth mother, the last Qui Subplex, despite being the named heir of the N’Vak empire. Always wondered about your brothers. Bet they wished they’d poisoned you at birth, huh? Disinheriting the pair of them in one fell swoop simply by being born with an excess of melatonin in your wings. Bet they both hate your guts.

“But I digress. The important thing, the Praevalen thing, which becomes such a teeny, tiny, irrelevant thing unless you find your Subplex. See, I _did_ read your article. Your whole argument that no true Subplex exist anywhere in the universe anymore because not one of them retains spirit or free will or FIRE. And then, guess what I come across? The most fiery, spirited little bastard that has ever dared to emit Submissive pheromones. A boy who stands in this office, exactly where you are standing right now, and not only tells me the precise terms under which he will consent to work for me, but even adds that he doesn’t give a shit whether I offer him a job or not.”

Castiel couldn’t help the huff of amusement he made as he pictured Dey’n having that exact conversation.

“So,” Crowley continued smugly. “I instantly knew damned well the boy would be Praevalen catnip. I set him up to work behind the bar so you would see for yourself that he was the real deal. And, night after night, you sat there and watched him at work. Watched him work that room like a fucking little god.”

“I understand, now, why you named him Dey’hahn. You were deliberately seeking my attention,” Castiel said, with a thoughtful frown. Dey’hahn was the name of a famous mythological Subplex. One who had been mated to a Praevalen named Castor. It was obvious now that Crowley had been planning some version of this particular conversation all along.

“Exactly. I didn’t kill Alastair for selling the little bitch. I killed him for being stupid enough to try to sell him to anyone other than _you_. I don’t tolerate idiots in my employ.”

Castiel snarled with fury, his wings unfurling dangerously. “He is not yours to sell,” he growled. “And if you call him another derogatory name, it will be the last word you speak.”

Crowley simply shrugged carelessly. “Oh, you’re not wrong about that. I know I can’t sell him to you, although that had been my original intention. The situation has since changed, but not for the reasons you imagine.”

“This conversation is over. I will take my leave. You do, after all, have a body to dispose of. I believe that makes us both equally disinclined to involve the authorities in any of this business.”

“You want to leave now? But we have barely gotten started. Walking out of that door would be a terrible mistake on your part, Misha. Because, well, I know something you don’t know,” Crowley purred, with a self-satisfied smirk. “And I really think you’ll want to know it. More to the point, you’ll definitely not want anyone else to know it. In fact, that is truly what I am offering to sell you now. My silence.”

“I am not interested in anything you have to say,” Castiel snapped.

“Oh, I really think you should be. Because I’m assuming you already know the boy’s the real deal. And you’re going to want to keep hold of him. Particularly when you know the unbelievable truth. And you didn’t even address the really valuable thing I am offering. My silence. But I understand why you don’t yet appreciate how valuable my silence is. So, here’s the deal. I will tell you what you need to know. Free and gratis. Then, YOU can tell me how much YOU believe my silence is worth.”

“I’m listening,” Castiel growled.

“Oh, take a seat. Have a drink. Let’s be civilized. I have a story to tell you. One that has taken a lot of time and research to verify. In fact, tracking down the last little snippet of this delightful tale is why I was unfortunately absent last night. Still, it all worked out for the best for everyone, didn’t it? Well except for D’Viim and poor Alastair here, I suppose,” Crowley said, with another smirk.

He poured two generous shots into crystal glasses and pushed one towards Castiel. “Seriously, N’Vak. Sit down and take the drink. You’re going to need it.”

“I prefer to stand,” Castiel said stiffly.

“I don’t care. Sit the fuck down and at least pretend to get comfortable, Praevalen. Let Crowley tell you an interesting bedtime story. Once upon a time, well, actually it was thirteen years ago if you want to be precise, there was a little family that lived on a little backwater planet by the peculiarly unimaginative name of Earth.

“I say family, but that’s a bit of an exaggeration. There was actually just a widower with two sons. The widower was a bitter man, a drinker, who spent most of his time drifting from job to job and place to place, dragging his children along with him like a pair of unwanted suitcases and bemoaning the sad state of his finances.”

“Why am I listening to this irrelevant nonsense?” Castiel demanded.

“Oh, trust me. You’ll understand the relevance soon enough,” Crowley promised. “Now, where was I? Oh yes…. So, one day the man was unexpectedly visited by his fairy godmother, or more precisely a Federal Officer responsible for tracking down the children of itinerant workers and testing them for the golden prize known as ‘genetic purity’. And the Widower, who had not only never found a bottle he didn’t like but had also previously never had a piece of luck that wasn’t bad, discovered that on that day, that wonderful unexpected day, he finally struck a jackpot. His oldest child was judged to be that most rare and precious of commercial commodities ever born. A Mariposa.

“So at twelve years old, the little precious caterpillar was bundled up and thrown into the back of the Officer’s transporter, sold for more credits than the Widower had even known existed, and was taken to a Mariposa Academy to be trained to become a perfect courtesan.

“And, as always happens, a likeness of that beautiful precious little caterpillar was immediately posted out to every Mariposa broker in the Federal Alliance. And all those brokers rubbed their hands in glee at the little pretty, and they contacted all of their rich elite clients who were in the market to purchase a precious little butterfly of their very own.

“After a vicious bidding war, because this particular caterpillar was quite a delightful little thing, a winner was declared and a certain extremely wealthy and influential man, from an eminent and highly important dynasty on one of the very Oldest of Worlds, indulgently purchased the Mariposa for his beloved youngest son.”

Castiel paled significantly and took a drink from the glass Crowley had handed him. The Tsalun smirked with satisfaction as the penny dropped. 

“The fact my father once purchased me a Mariposa is not a secret,” Castiel said, when he regained his composure. “This ‘gossip’ is of no importance. Tell whomever you wish. The only scandal caused will be people’s incomprehension of why I chose not to claim him. They will, at least, finally understand why my father despairs of me and considers me an ungrateful idiot.”

“Indeed,” Crowley agreed easily. “And yet you don’t strike me as an uncaring man. Have you never wondered about the true implications of your failure to comply with your father’s wishes? Did you never wonder about the disposal of an unclaimed pretty?”

“I did what little I could to ensure he would gain time and value from my decision, rather than be seen as simply unsuitable. I was always conscious I was rejecting a living being,” Castiel argued weakly.

“Then I am sure you agree that living being you were responsible for, albeit inadvertently, deserves at least your understanding of what your decision caused to occur. Don’t you ever wonder what happened to him?”

“No,” Castiel lied. “I know he was inevitably resold to a more suitable ‘owner’. But I did what I could to at least ensure he was a true adult before that happened, rather than a mere child. I bought him time.”

“Indeed you did,” Crowley agreed. “Fast forward six years and the little caterpillar has finally blossomed into a splendid, glorious butterfly. He has been trained to be living perfection. Groomed to kneel at the feet of emperors and kings. To delight them with his wit and charm. To create envy in all that see his beauty. To fulfill his master’s every wish. To spread his legs willingly for the delight of that lucky master. To never, ever, even dream of expressing an opinion that has not been given him. And, most of all, to never even perceive of the possibility of ever saying ‘no’.

“But the lucky master of this wondrous creature does not arrive to claim him on his eighteenth birthday. The master is apparently ‘too busy’. He instead sends a ridiculous amount of money and a vague instruction that the butterfly requires more ‘education’ before he is going to be to the master’s taste. Well, of course, this creates a quandary for the Academy. The butterfly is already considered ‘perfect’. He already speaks several languages. He is already fully versed in every necessary subject required to be a Mariposa. So what, they wonder, can the boy possibly study at University that can possibly add to his value? 

“And no-one has any idea at all, until some wit suggests letting the Mariposa choose for himself. It’s a joke, of course, since everyone knows Mariposa have no opinions until someone provides them with one. So no one expects the boy to make a decision at all, let alone to choose that he wants to study science. And, of course, there is much wailing and gnashing of teeth at the Academy as it finally occurs to them that… perhaps… the perfect little Mariposa is not actually the perfect, obedient little doll he has always pretended to be.

“But it is too late and, honestly, not really the Academy’s problem anymore. The boy’s owner has, after all, instructed that he should attend university and one of the Professors of the Academy is surprisingly forceful that having offered the boy a choice, it would be unconscionable to refuse it. The governors of the Academy reluctantly capitulate. They even agree that it would be best, under the circumstances, that the boy moves out of the Academy, where he might somehow ‘infect’ younger students with his peculiar oddity, and he lives in halls like a ‘normal’ student. So, for the first time in six years, the Mariposa is allowed to wear ‘normal’ clothing, and to mingle with ‘normal’ people, as long as once a week, without fail, he returns to the Academy to prove he is still virginal and obedient and ‘pure’.

“For three whole years the little Mariposa complies. Never complaining. Never resisting. Never making a single misstep. He studies hard. He graduates top of his class. And then he waits obediently after the graduation ceremony for his master to come forward and claim him.

“But yet again, his master does not arrive. I assume you were still ‘busy’,” Crowley added snidely. “And so, the very next day, the little Mariposa walks himself to the courthouse. In his hand he holds a meticulously kept diary of proof that for three whole years he has survived without titleholder supervision. He produces evidence that he never failed to attend for his mandatory testing, not even when genuine illness would have given him excuse. He produces evidence of a healthy credit account, one he has secretly kept for the entire three years, one that proves that every week, without fail, he deposited every single credit provided for his ‘extraneous expenses’, choosing the wisdom of saving over spending despite everyone ‘knowing’ Mariposa care only for fripperies and are incapable of planning for the future. And, faced with this incontrovertible evidence of the boy’s surprising resilience and independence, the reluctant court has no legal choice except to grant the Mariposa’s request for immediate emancipation.

“So, finally ‘free’ after nine years of terrible incarceration, the little Mariposa endeavors to become self-sufficient. To find employment with the aid of his shiny new first-class degree. But every day, every interview, the boy meets with rejection. Every would-be employer sees the butterfly on the boy’s face and laughs at him. Tells him to get back to the Academy. Tells him the only job he is suitable for is lying on his back or kneeling at a master’s feet. And all the while his savings are dwindling and his options are swiftly fading until voluntarily placing himself back into the hands of the Academy appears to be his only choice. He will have to willingly choose to return to slavery.”

Castiel emitted a low groan of distress at the picture Crowley’s words were painting. Why had he never enquired about the boy’s fate? Why had he thought it enough simply to refuse to claim him? Why had he ever imagined it might be better simply to pretend to himself that the boy never existed at all?

“Shall I continue?” Crowley asked, with mock solicitude.

Castiel flinched slightly, but gestured that he should keep speaking.

“Instead of allowing the rejections to crush him, the little Mariposa digs deep inside himself and finds the strength to return not to the Academy but to the court, this time to request the removal of his tattoo. The court delighted in weaving him a horror story of what such a procedure would entail. To ensure the ‘purity’ of the species, the boy was required to donate his genetic material in a ceremony that, well, let’s suffice it to say the boy was ‘milked’ mercilessly for hours in a totally unnecessary, degrading and totally humiliating way in the court itself, in front of a panel of jurors and a full public gallery, until such time as it was judged that he had been ‘drained dry’. Remembering that this was done to a verified virgin who was still barely more than a child, I leave it to you to imagine for yourself how traumatic that experience would have been for him.

“Then, if that degrading horror were not enough suffering, the little Mariposa had to consent to be permanently sterilized for his ‘own good’, to ensure he was never acquired for breeding purposes by any unscrupulous people, because the Federation are extremely diligent about protecting Mariposa from cruel exploitation. Well, let’s be honest, protecting them against any cruel exploitation that the Federation does not instigate or profit from itself. However, the important point is that, finally, the Mariposa had his tattoo removed.

“And, oddly, suddenly his shiny new degree was worth the paper it was printed on after all. The very first interview he attended after the procedure, the now truly ex-Mariposa secured himself a position at a prestigious laboratory and, finally, he was free to live a ‘normal’ life. Well, unless his owner ever decided to get off his ass and collect him. But we both know that never happened, so at this point of the story we could surely anticipate a ‘happy ending’ for the poor brave thing. Except of course, that didn’t happen.

“Because the court had not been fully truthful with the little ex-Mariposa. When they had assured him that the removal of the tattoo would be accompanied with the removal of all records of his Mariposa ‘schooling’, they lied. When the HR department of his new employers sent for a copy of his school transcripts for their files, the transcripts were ‘accidentally’ supplied under the letter heading of the Mariposa Academy. One can only assume it was expected that the Mariposa would have been summarily dismissed. Be forced, finally, to understand that escape was impossible and to capitulate and return to servitude. Peculiarly, that did not happen. In fact, what did happen as a result of that ‘mistake’ was that it was the employee who opened that communication and brought it to the General Manager’s attention who was fired.

“Shortly afterward, by a strange coincidence, the ex-Mariposa was working late at the laboratory when the General Manager, a charming, handsome individual, happened to accidentally ‘bump into him’. And thus began the little Mariposa’s first introduction to romance. Such an irony of life, I suppose, that even someone as smart and resourceful as the boy who had so cleverly slipped the yoke of his slavery, was still only a romantic innocent who fell hook, line and sinker for the machinations of an unscrupulous biological Dominant who set out to catch himself a ‘free’ butterfly.

“But the Dom knew he was playing for high stakes. He moved as slowly and cunningly as a spider. He wove a web of deceit, convincing the boy that he genuinely loved him, that theirs was a great and real romance. Even with the advantage of his Dominant pheromones working to confuse and enchant his victim, it still took two long torturous years for him to finally convince the skittish boy to accept his marriage proposal.”

Castiel buried his head in his hands and groaned.

“Oh, yes,” Crowley agreed. “Because no one had ever bothered to explain to the ex-mariposa that he couldn’t marry. That this was nothing more than a masterful trap that had been set specifically to capture him. And then, perhaps because it was too late, because the proposal had been accepted and the boy now had no way to escape his trap, the Dom made the mistake of admitting the truth, mocking the butterfly, laughing at him, telling him that he was now nothing more than property again, a slave again.

“And what did the poor little butterfly do? Did he wail and gnash his teeth? Did he cry? Did he sob his despair to the heavens? No. He punched the Dom across the face. Hit him with a roundhouse punch that knocked the unforgivable bastard out completely and then he grabbed his things and he ran away and disappeared altogether.”

“WHAT?”

“Thought you’d like that part,” Crowley smirked. “Of course, that was all the portion of the story that was relatively easy to establish. I knew how it ended and, once I figured it out, I swiftly discovered how it began. The hardest part was figuring out the middle. And, I have to say, I’m still a bit hazy on some of the details. I haven’t quite figured out how he did it. Changing his name on his ID implant to enable him to disappear, I mean. I couldn’t figure out how he would have tracked down anyone to help him do it. It’s supposed to be nigh on impossible isn’t it? But he’s a pretty decent engineer it seems, so maybe he did it himself. Who knows? It definitely seems foolish to underestimate him.

“All I do know for sure is that shortly after Dean Campbell disappeared, an identical young biological Submissive named Winchester, joined an Interstellar Cruise Liner as engineering support and traveled half-way across the Universe before alighting on Tsaluna in search of a fresh start. Then young Mr. Winchester arrived at this fine establishment and used the fact he was an ex-Mariposa, as evidenced by the subcutaneous tattoo under his skin, to secure employment. The tattoo that has remained in place, despite its surface removal, and is clearly visible to Tsalun such as myself. I agreed, under protest I should admit, that he could wear a temporary Polilla tattoo, since he refused completely - and I have to allow, understandably - to ever wear the mark of a butterfly again. The Polilla tattoo was sufficient for my needs, anyway. It was enough to inspire your friend, Gabriel, to scan him and see he was a genuine Subplex. And then lure you here.

“And so, my Praevalen friend, there you have it. The complete and unabridged truth. The reason I can’t sell you your Subplex, your fiery little Polilla, is that he is ALREADY your undisputed legal property. You own him. Fair and square. Dey’hahn is Dean Winchester, who is Dean Campbell, who is YOUR Mariposa. Bought and paid for in full by Carolus N’Vak thirteen years ago. Under Federal Law you don’t even have to register a contract. You don’t need a contract. He’s yours. You can just slap a collar around his neck to claim him and game over.”

“It can’t be possible,” Castiel choked, stunned into inaction. He could only gape at the Tsalun in horror.

“Oh but it is, because it’s true. And that is not good news for you, is it? If I understood your article correctly, the absolute last thing a true Praevalen wants or needs is a Subplex bound to them in slavery. It barely bears thinking about, does it? That magnificent, unique, defiant little shit being permanently bound to you against his will, enveloping you constantly in wave after wave of poisonous, resentful hate-filled pheromones. What a pretty pickle this is. 

“So, I’d suggest you send him back to work sharpish. Though I’m a reasonable man. Tomorrow will be soon enough. A bit late for today and I’m sure he had a stressful experience last night. I don’t even mind if you want to keep him at your place permanently. Set up house and play happy families if you like. No skin off my nose and saves me paying his rent anyway. But encourage him to break his employment contract with me and I’ll have the City Guards pick him up, gift wrap him and drop him at your place fully aware of who you really are.

“So give some consideration as to how much my silence is worth, Praevalen N’Vak. Because I guarantee that if Dey’hahn finds out who you are, what you are, and that you ‘own’ him, he will be gone so fast you won’t see him for dust. And neither of us want that outcome, do we?”

“I’ve got nothing,” Gabriel admitted, imagining he looked as stunned as Castiel did.

Receiving a panicked text twice in one day from his friend, rushing over to Infernum to meet him, nothing had prepared him for the bombshell Castiel had just dropped.

“You’re sure Crowley is telling the truth? The whole situation smacks of contrivance to me. I mean, what are the odds of this Subplex being _your_ Subplex? The Galaxy is too damned big for this to be mere coincidence. Are you sure this whole situation hasn’t been contrived by Crowley himself? You said he admitted he already knew you were Misha C’lln. What if he’s been playing a long-game? Maybe Dey’n is an unusually bold Polilla that Crowley somehow tracked down and then planted in Infernum just to lure you in? A ringer that Crowley has hired to create a deliberate scam? You’re a rich guy and Crowley is clearly a creep considering this whole blackmail angle he’s pushing. I wouldn’t put it past him to have engineered this whole situation for his own benefit. I mean, from your point of view that would be the best-case scenario anyway. Dey’n being a clever con-artist would be better for you, wouldn’t it? He’d still be the fiery Subplex you need without all the rest of the baggage,” Gabriel suggested hopefully.

“I am not gullible,” Castiel replied with a repressive glower. “Idiotic, it turns out, but not a sap. I logged directly into the department for immigration and checked Dey’n’s official entry record. He was scanned on arrival and identified as a Mariposa by the Tsalun Immigration Officers but they just stamped his digital record with the formal designation ‘Subplex’, which is why his subsequent employment recording him as a Polilla rather than a Mariposa didn’t create any security alert. They even logged a potential discrepancy with his ID chip - a suspicion it had been tampered with - but disregarded it as immaterial in view of his designation. In other words, the Tsalun knew he’d arrived illegally but didn’t care because, well, a Subplex is never going to be denied immigration status.

“We both know the Tsalun employment camps for ‘itinerants’ are really nothing more than slave markets for biological Submissives. I imagine they were hoping if they let Dey’n enter Tsaluna, he might fail to secure a job, end up in a camp and they could profit hugely by ‘finding him suitable employment’ as they call it. Just because we haven’t yet found a way to prove what the Tsalun are doing, doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen.”

“Since their clients are invariably High Qui, I don’t think even ‘Misha C’lln’ will ever manage to find someone willing to publish that truth on Tsaluna even if you do gather enough evidence to prove it,” Gabriel agreed.

“Crowley then showed me the reward offers that this Michael Hortlan has posted for information regarding the current location of his missing fiance ‘Dean Campbell’. The photograph is definitely that of Dey’n. And I always knew my Mariposa was named Campbell, so that fits too. I am reluctant to send a communique to the Earth Academy requesting verification of the other details. I don’t want to draw their attention to Tsaluna, lest I inadvertently draw Hortlan’s attention in this direction also. His legal claim on Dey’n is almost as good as my own.”

“Shit, Cassie. Your butterfly is the most magnificent creature that’s ever existed. If all of this is true, he’s been deliberately undermining the system since he was twelve years old. Can you even begin to imagine the kind of innate strength it must have taken for him to choose to work within the system instead of fighting it? If he’d made even one mistake, lost his temper even a single time, lost control of himself and ever said ‘no’ to any perceived indignity, the Academy would have destroyed him. There are certain drugs, certain procedures, that could legally have been used to erase his personality completely. For his ‘own good’, of course. Because everyone knows the only ‘happy’ Mariposa is an obedient Mariposa.

“How did he know, instinctively, to avoid that? To pretend perfect compliance for so long whilst always planning to somehow escape his fate? Probably just as well you didn’t claim him, my friend. I don’t doubt that you would have had an unfortunate ‘accident’ sooner or later. He’s too damned smart not to have figured out your death would have been another potential legal escape route from his slavery.”

Castiel swallowed heavily. “These days, I doubt he’d even bother making it look like an accident. If he finds out who I am, he’ll probably just knife me in my sleep. And who could blame him?”

“Fuck, Castiel. What are you going to do?”

“I have no idea. My first thought was to just tell him everything, be totally honest with him and take my chances. But Crowley’s right. He’ll run. Maybe not straight away. We already know he must be a consummate actor to have fooled the Academy for so long. He’d probably pretend to accept it, to take it well, to believe me when I assure him I have no intention of ever enforcing my ‘claim’ on him. But he’ll just be lulling me into a false sense of security. The moment I relax my guard, he’ll be gone. And I can’t always be on guard to prevent that. I can’t become his jailor, Gabe, or I would just become that which he rightly fears.”

“Of course he’ll run,” Gabriel agreed. “He’s fought too hard for his freedom to trust his safety to your whims. It doesn’t matter what you say or promise, the plain truth is that you always will hold that threat over his head, whether you want to or not. There is no legal way in which you can relinquish your claim. The only way it can be dissolved is if Dey’n is claimed by another Dom first. Which, obviously, is no solution for him either.”

Castiel nodded miserably. “So, then I thought perhaps I should go with my original plan. Pretend to be Null. Attempt to make him fall in love with me for who I really am, without all the mess of our designations getting between us. And then, when he knows I am completely sincere, then admit the truth? But isn’t that what that Michael Hortlan did to him? Deliberately deceived him in exactly the same way?”

Gabriel huffed out a breath, his face twisted with indecision. “I dunno, Cassie. It’s not exactly the same, is it? You’re not trying to trick him into accidentally becoming your property. Quite the opposite, He’s _already_ your property. All you’re trying to do is shield him from an unpalatable truth. Maybe if you can make him genuinely want to stay with you, prove to him that you want to treat him as your husband rather than your courtesan, then your private relationship will be all that actually matters in the end. Perhaps it will stop mattering what other people perceive your relationship to be, even what the Law considers your relationship to be. What happens behind closed doors will be your business, not anyone else's.

“But what if he doesn’t fall in love with you, Cassie? It’s not a given. How will you handle it if your Subplex chooses to reject you?”

Castiel groaned low in his throat, as though even contemplating the idea of rejection caused him true physical pain, but he then said, “It obviously is a strong possibility. Even if he doesn’t reject me for myself, he may, understandably, still be unable to contemplate an existence of being legally perceived as nothing more than my ‘toy’. Of being, at best, my Courtesan whilst I will be forced, by this society we live in, to accept another to be my legal wife or husband. To become, effectively their property should I die. It may be necessary for him to leave the auspices of the Federal Alliance completely to escape the legal shackles that bind him. If so, I will do all within my power to aid him in doing so.”

“You’d actually help your own Subplex to escape you? Taking all of your Praevalen powers with him?” Gabriel demanded.

Castiel shrugged. “Without him, I don’t have them. So they are his to take.”

“Okay, shoot me if I’m out of line, but why don’t you simplify this whole thing? Why don’t you leave Tsaluna too? Take the boy to an independent planet where none of this shit even matters, then tell him the truth. Let him see that you’ve voluntarily given up your rights before you even admit that you had them in the first place?”

Castiel looked startled for a moment and then, for the first time in a couple of hours, the deep hopeless misery in his eyes faded as they brightened with genuine hope. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?

“Because this shit is happening to you. Sometimes the only way to look at a thing clearly is from outside the situation. You have independent money, Cassie. You have no interest in the N’Vak name and two brothers to gladly take over your inheritance. Your father is the kind of good egg who would rather never see you again than see you unhappy and your mother, your _legal_ mother, is a bitch from hell who’d be so glad to see the back of you that she’d probably pay for your flight away from here. You hate your job, hate the fact you are stuck, year after year, teaching a syllabus you don’t believe in to students who don’t even care. Take your Subplex and your horde of illicit books and move them both to the safety of an independent world.”

“I have certain responsibilities here,” Castiel said, looking torn.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gabriel muttered. “I guarantee Misha C’lln can continue his seditious publishings from anywhere in the Galaxy. In fact, you’ll probably be a hell of a lot more effective in undermining the Federal assholes if you can write from a place where ‘he’ isn’t constantly under threat of arrest. In fact, if it all works out, becoming a true full-powered Praevalen by proving your theories and actually marrying your Subplex on a world free of Federal Law might be the biggest blow you can ever make against our sick society.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” Castiel admitted. “I need to find the right world, and a means to get there with a Mariposa. That alone will be problematic. We Qui are such self-aggrandizing isolationists that I don’t believe any of the High Qui own interplanetary vessels. To leave Tsalun I’d need to hire a commercial ship and few, if any, will agree to transport a Mariposa passenger. Assuming I could solve that problem, I’d need to exchange most of my Federal Credits for tradeable items and do so in a way that my intention to depart didn’t draw unwelcome attention to me. Or, more importantly, to Dey’n. And most of the independent worlds require immigrants to provide useful skills in addition to buying a claim, and I doubt any of them are in the market for a Professor of Antiquities. I think Dey’n has far more to offer a place like that than I do.”

“Nonsense. You’ll both be welcome assets to a fledgling society. Any successful colony will begin to produce children, and so will need teachers. Or you could become a law keeper. You’re a damned Praevalen, Cassie, with awesome super smitey powers. I can’t imagine any colony not wanting you. Look, you’ve got enough on your plate for now. Leave it to me to find you somewhere to go and a way to get there. Sign me a power of attorney to your bank account and I’ll get the ball rolling. The next best thing to having money of my own to spend will be the fun of spending yours. I’ll get everything organized for you. All you have to do is get the kid to trust you enough to get on a ship with you in the first place. Leave all the rest to me.”

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You didn’t. I offered. You’ve got the hardest part of the deal anyway. You’ve got to convince that little spitfire that a boring ‘Null’ Professor of Antiquities is somehow still Dom enough to give a ‘Polilla’ what he needs. That’s going to be your real problem. Fierce independent little shit that he is, he is still a biological Submissive. He still has certain needs. Finding a way to satisfy those needs without crossing the line into acting the asshole Dom is going to be one hell of a difficult tightrope to walk. But if anyone can do it, it’s you, Castiel. Because you are that guy. You’re gorgeous, you bastard. You don’t need pheromones to seduce him and you’re not the kind of insecure asshole who needs compliance outside of your bed. You don’t need to fake being what he wants. You just have to conceal the reason _why_ you are. And just remember, whenever you feel guilty about lying to him, he is lying to you too.”

“With damned good reason,” Castiel said staunchly. “His self-protective camouflage is understandable and justifiable. I will never condemn him for his deception. If anything, I applaud him for his ability to so ably conceal himself. His minor deceits are totally necessary for his own survival.”

“As are yours, at least for now,” Gabriel pointed out, and was relieved to see Castiel nod in reluctant acceptance. “Good,” he said. “Looks like we have a plan.”


	3. Chapter Three

It was probably his guilty conscience but when Castiel returned to the Annex a little before midnight and found it in total darkness, his first assumption was that Dey’n had come to his senses and had fled.

The thought alone was enough to make his knees weaken and his heart thud in his chest. Even with the blockers preventing the production of pheromones, he still felt the flood of adrenaline throughout his body as every instinct he had told him to fly, fly, fly until he refound his mate.

Even as the panic filled him, drawing on something primal, surging inside him like a wave of blue fire, he was too much of a scholar not to be simultaneously documenting his own reaction. If this was how he felt after less than a day, before Dey’n had even consented to be the object of his affection, he couldn’t help but wonder how much worse a true broken bond would feel like. Good grief, how much power would the Subplex have over him if he did, somehow, convince Dey’n to consent to become his mate?

It was a sobering thought, one that poured a dash of ice onto his panic even as he realised that Dey’n wasn’t absent from the Annex at all. The Pol… the Mariposa had simply fallen asleep on one of the living room couches. He had clearly been waiting there for Castiel’s return and had, due to the late hour, slipped into sleep before it had become dark enough for him to activate the lights.

Castiel cautiously brought the lights on at only half-power, enough to see clearly enough by their amber glow but not so bright as to startle Dey’n awake.

Curiously, Dey’n had been reading a book which was still open on his lap. The book was in Quian, and Castiel naturally wondered whether the inability to read Quian had been another of Dey’n’s self-protective lies. He hadn’t missed Dey’n insisting he wasn’t particularly intelligent despite Castiel now knowing the Mariposa had achieved an advanced degree. He had to remember from now on not to back Dey’n into conversational corners. Every time Dey’n felt the need to lie to maintain a distinction between the Mariposa he was and the Polilla he was pretending to be, would be another wedge driven between them. But moving closely enough to see which volume had interested the Mariposa, Castiel realized Dey’n hadn’t been lying after all. He saw that Dey’n’s wrist device was still displaying the open page of a FedStan/Quian translator which implied he’d been scanning and translating on the fly. 

No wonder he’d worn himself out, Castiel thought, smiling softly at the younger man. If a single one of his students put that much effort into learning, he wouldn’t feel as though his own role at the University was ultimately pointless.

Castiel noted the book Dey’n had been reading - he’d reached page one hundred and twelve which hadn’t been a bad effort for a book in a totally unfamiliar language - and he gasped softly. Was it coincidence? Probably. Dey’n would have needed to choose a book even before the process of scanning its contents, so he’d probably just picked one at random. And most of Castiel’s favorite books - which were consequently the ones most likely to have been lying on top of the piles - referenced Sub/Prae relationships. But it still seemed improbable that Dey’n had chosen the tale of Castor and Dey’hahn because it was, honestly, Castiel’s favorite book. The one he returned to so often he imagined its pages were worn thin by his fingerprints.

Though, actually, maybe that was exactly why Dean had been drawn to it. The ancient paper was probably impregnated with his hormones, with faint traces of his pheromones. Not enough to be obvious but enough, perhaps, to have subconsciously influenced the Mariposa’s choice.

“It was an odd coincidence,” Dean said, which was Castiel’s first warning that he had awoken. “There must be hundreds of books in this room. What’s the odds I chose one about a couple named Cas and Dey’n?”

“Higher than you’d imagine. Particularly considering your tendency to shorten names,” he said, with a wry smile. “But Castor was an extremely well-known historical figure. He features to an extent in probably a quarter of these old texts. Dey’hahn is always mentioned alongside him in one capacity or other. The book you are currently holding is the only one, however, that concentrates purely on their relationship. It is less a historical treatise than a somewhat salacious work of fiction.”

“It’s not true?” Dey’n asked, sounding oddly disappointed.

“It’s a fictionalized account. I believe it is based upon true events but it was written some centuries after Castor died, so I imagine the writer used a fair amount of poetic license. Having said that, I believe it is far closer to the truth than most modern scholars prefer to admit.”

“Another redacted work?”

“Honestly, that particular version of the story is now completely forbidden. It was judged to be both heretical and morally reprehensible so was moved from public access before I was even born. That particular copy was not rescued from the library below. It belonged to my mother.”

Dey’n sat up abruptly, looking mildly horrified. “I am so sorry, “ he said. “I didn’t realize it was something precious to you. Here, take it back,” he insisted, thrusting it hurriedly in Castiel’s direction.

“Don’t you wish to know how the story ends?” Castiel asked mildly. 

“But it’s a precious heirloom,” Dey’n argued.

“It’s a book. Its purpose is to be read,” Castiel said, with a shrug. “The idea I will no longer be the only one who has done so for thirty-odd years is actually quite satisfying.”

“So,” Dey’n said, changing the subject although he quietly retracted his arm and placed the book carefully back on his couch. “What happened with Crowley?”

“You were correct. Crowley was unaware of Alastair’s actions. He was most upset to hear of what occurred last night. Alastair has been dealt with and is no longer in Crowley’s employ.”

Dey’n frowned. “That’s possibly bad news. If he blames me for getting fired, he’s even more likely to take action against me again.”

Castiel could have told Dey’n that Alastair was dead and therefore unlikely to take action against anyone. Instead, he grabbed the gift horse and took it for a canter. “I said as much to Crowley. He agreed, as long as it’s alright with you, that you could continue to live here at the Annex until we are sure that Alastair has left Arthos altogether. Since I visit Infernum most nights anyway, I could escort you home each evening and that way you will be assured of being safe. My appearance is sufficient to cause most Qui to avoid confrontation altogether.”

“Because people mistake you for a Prae?” Dey’n queried.

“Precisely.”

“But I don’t want to take advantage of you, Cas.”

I wish you would, Castiel thought. “You wouldn’t be. Crowley is obligated to cover your board and lodging as a condition of your employment. He is just as happy to pay your boarding fee to me as he is to pay it to your current accommodation,” he said, improvising wildly, “ so it would be doing me a favor too.”

“At least you’ll be able to feed yourself for a change,” Dey’n said. “Because I now know the reason you go to Infernum is definitely because the price of a drink is less than the cost of heat and warmth in this place.”

“How so?” Castiel inquired, vaguely confused.

“Because whilst I’m sure you meant well when you said I could help myself to anything in your kitchen, you don’t have enough food in there to feed a stray dog,” Dean griped. “I found some rice and shit, so I knocked up a risotto thing. I left you plenty in case you haven’t eaten yet today. But other than that your cupboards are pretty bare. I thought about going shopping for you but I don’t know this district and I don’t know what you like to eat anyway. I’ve got some local currency of my own now, but not enough to waste on buying the wrong crap. Knowing my luck I’d have blown the lot on meat patties only to find out you’re vegetarian or something.”

Castiel flushed, kicking himself for not thinking about the state of his groceries. He was a seriously poor cook, so he usually ate all his meals out. Hence his almost bare cupboards. He felt unreasonably distressed at the thought he’d failed to adequately provide for his Subplex. The Subplex who wasn’t his Subplex, he reminded himself, although his hindbrain wasn’t prepared to listen to reason. On the other hand, his oversight worked to his advantage.

“I am most assuredly not vegetarian as I will prove when I shop tomorrow. Crowley already paid me an advance to cover both your room and lodgings for several days in the hope you would agree to remain here for a while,” he lied. “Enough for me to replenish the kitchen supplies tomorrow. Since your room costs me nothing, the amount is enough for both of us to eat. If you’d be kind enough to stay with me for a while, we’ll both be able to eat well for a change.”

“Listen, man, you did me a solid last night. I owe you. I don’t know why Professors are paid so badly here. Seems like you should be earning decent money but I guess the Qui don’t value learning enough, huh? Or is it because you teach an unpopular subject? Guess that makes sense. Anyway, if this helps you too, I’m all for it,” Dey’n agreed easily. “I’ll go reheat the rice and you can tell me about this Subplex thing. Now I’ve been reading about Cas and Dey’n, I’m really intrigued. I mean I get that it’s all just myths and stuff, but it helps to have cultural context.”

The rice was so good that Castiel wondered what culinary marvels Dey’n would be able to produce with a decent variety of food. What he’d managed to achieve with the bare minimum of dusty ingredients available in the Annex was already pretty phenomenal. “This is really good,” he said, accepting a second bowl.

Dey’n blushed. “Wasn’t much. Didn’t have much to work with. But you have a decent supply of spices and they could even make a piece of old parchment taste palatable.”

Castiel wondered when Dey’n had learned how to cook. It couldn’t have been at the Academy. Mariposa were expected to live in grand houses or palaces with a multitude of servants, so no one taught them basic life skills. Dey’n had been a university student though and according to Crowley had saved every spare penny of his allowance. So, presumably, that was when Dey’n had learned to make tasty food on a minimal budget.

But thinking about that, about how ill-prepared Dey’n had been for normal life and yet had somehow still managed to excel at it, just reminded him of how phenomenally unique the Mariposa was.

Don’t screw this up, he told himself desperately. He needed to be careful not to do anything to either make Dey’n run from him or, even worse, take any action that might bring danger to his door. 

“So you were going to talk to me about Subplex,” Dey’n prompted.

“You’ve already read a little of Castor and Dey’hahn. They feature in everything from children’s bedtime fairytales to serious historical tomes. The reason that particular book you’re reading was banned isn’t just its somewhat racy prose, but the fact that it promotes the idea that Praevalen and Subplex form a synergistic relationship and, by so doing, release a primal power in the Praevalen. For a long time, people were happy to consider the work one of pure fiction. Gifting mythological figures with ‘superpowers’ has always been an acceptable literary trope. The problem is that an archeological dig in northern Tsaluna, fifty years ago, discovered a number of artifacts and written histories that not only confirmed that Castor and Dey’hahn had been real, historical figures - admittedly not something anyone truly doubted - but more concerningly, there was suggestion that the Praevalen ‘powers’ long credited as no more real than the idea of magic or dragons or other similar myths - had been genuine. The Federation acted swiftly to crush those rumors and books like the one you are reading were black-listed.”

“I don’t get it,” Dey’n admitted. “There are plenty of Praevalen on Earth. I never met any of them personally, admittedly, but there are supposed to be about 900 or so of them. No-one has ever suggested they have superpowers or shit.”

“Of course not,” Castiel agreed. “Because they don’t. They can’t. Praevalen have no ‘superpowers’ without Subplex and your world has never had any Subplex capable of gifting those powers.”

“You’ve lost me,” Dean admitted. “I thought you said Mariposa and Polilla are all really this Subplex designation. So since Earth comparatively has loads of Subplex wouldn’t that make it _more_ likely to have superpowered Prae?”

“Bear with me. The answer is a little complicated. The tradition of Mariposa had been long established in the Universe before your world even evolved enough to distinguish the specific variations of the designations. When your planet joined the Federal Alliance they were happy to accept all of the Federation Laws. Including those that dealt directly with biological Dominants and Submissives. Realistically, since 90% of most races are Null, the peculiar rules regarding biologicals have always been accepted by new member planets. The advantages offered to the majority of citizens have always outweighed the concerns of the few who might become disadvantaged.”

“You say that like the biologicals are missing out,” Dey’n protested. “As a rule, Doms and Subs, both biological and elective, are all well catered for under federal law. Even if what you said last night, or this morning I guess, is true about Mariposa and Polilla being enslaved because they fall into this weird Subplex designation, they are the _only_ victims of any form of blatant discrimination. It sucks, sure, but the numbers still make sense. Rejecting the Federation entirely for the sake of people who make up a tiny fraction of less than one percent of the population makes no sense whatsoever. Even as a victim myself, I’m not so self-centered as to wish my planet had never been drawn into the Alliance. Everyone else seems to have benefitted hugely. The advances in medicine alone justify our inclusion.”

“That’s a remarkably generous attitude,’ Castiel said. “In your position, I doubt I would feel so sanguine.”

“Oh, I don’t think ‘sanguine’ is the correct word,” Dean denied. “I’m pissed as hell. I have an ever-growing list of people I would happily throw on a ship bound for a black hole. But my personal anger over certain aspects of the Federation doesn’t prevent me acknowledging that, on the whole, it’s a good thing. There are a total of maybe 900 human Polilla and Mariposa. Whilst that is 900 too many in my opinion, the numbers are statistically insignificant considering the billions of humans who exist.

Castiel sighed. “On the surface of it that is true. But, that aside, consider the numbers, Dey’n. Earlier you mentioned there are about nine hundred Prae on Earth too. See the significance?”

Dey’n blinked, then shook his head. “Nope, I don’t buy it. It’s a statistical improbability, sure, but it’s unscientific to draw conclusions based on a single co-incidence. Nature is chaotic. It doesn’t provide neat, gift-wrapped solutions. The suggestion that a Praevalen exists for every ‘Subplex’, as though Sub/Prae relationships are a preset design, would necessitate the involvement of a higher-power or external influence. I’m not denying your hypothesis that Sub/Prae relationships are optimal. I don’t have the data to confirm or deny that, but the significance of the matching numbers is a far more tenuous connection.” Then Dey’n looked a little startled, winced a little, and said, “Not that I know anything about science,” he added hurriedly, with a self-deprecating grin.

“I don’t think you need to know about science to apply common sense to a situation,” Castiel offered easily. “And you’re right, really. Numbers lie. So do history books. No one can prove, one way or the other, whether the myths about Subplex and Praevalen are true because no genuine Subplex still exist and, in the Old Races, Praevalen are rare as hen’s teeth too. So it’s a moot point perhaps unless you consider whether the entire Mariposa tradition was evolved as a deliberate attempt to change the nature of the Subplex designation.”

Dey’n frowned. “I take it that’s your position?”

“I may have proposed that hypothesis on occasion,” Castiel admitted carefully.

“So what exactly do you mean by ‘genuine’ Subplex?” Dean queried.

“I suppose the book you are reading is as good an explanation as any. I know you’re only about a third of the way through but I know that book intimately so know you have already been thoroughly introduced to the character of Dey’hahn. Tell me, how would you describe him to me?”

“He’s a cheeky, irreverent little shit,” Dey’n laughed. “I loved the scene when he first met Castor and, despite instantly recognizing him as the heir to the throne arriving to woo him, pretended he thought he was a potential burglar and set hounds on him to chase him off his property.”

“Not a very submissive Submissive was he?” Castiel agreed. “But that’s the point, Dey’n. Subplex are not truly biological Submissives at all. At least not as we understand the designation in modern times. For one thing, the genes that cause the propensity for submissive sexuality in Subplex are different than those that create standard biological Submissive behavior. Their pheromones are, therefore, subtly different also. That is why you, as a Polilla,” he added carefully, “are considered Subplex exactly the same as a Mariposa. It is nothing to do with training or even the degree of your ‘purity’. Even if a Polilla only scanned as 90% Subplex, it still would be 90% of a totally different gene sequence than that of a simple biological Submissive.”

Dean frowned at him, his eyes darkening suspiciously. “Hang on a minute… you said ‘submissive sexuality’. As though you were suggesting there is a significant difference between that and submissive behavior.”

“I believe that there is,” Castiel agreed. “The general conception of all Submissives is that they evidence submissive behaviors in most or even all aspects of their lives. Even elective submissives follow that pattern. Subplex, however, were never recorded in history as being submissive at all. They merely had a submissive sexuality. Subplex are wired to find sexual satisfaction from a physically dominant sexual partner, not from pursuing a relationship with a psychologically dominating mate. Do you understand the distinction?”

“SON OF A BITCH!” Dey’n yelled, jumping to his feet as though too filled with rage to contain the emotion unless he expended some energy by starting to pace agitatedly between the towering stacks of books in the room. “You’re saying the whole Mariposa training shit is a deliberate concerted effort to impose behavioral submission on a Subplex?”

Castiel wasn’t truly surprised by how quickly Dey’n grasped the truth of the situation. After all, it answered questions Dey’n must have been wrestling with for years.

“That is my belief,” Castiel agreed carefully. “One supported by years of research on my part. I have never found a single historical record that suggests otherwise. Subplex do not naturally display any submissive behavior outside of a bedchamber. It isn’t even necessarily accurate to describe their sexual behavior as ‘submissive’ either. There is an argument that they are so determined to enjoy the particular form of sexual satisfaction they prefer that it may be invalid to describe it as submission at all. In fact, I believe the entire suppression of the rights of biological Submissives - in reality if not in actual Law - is merely an unfortunate side-effect of the efforts by the Federal Authorities to suppress Subplex by deliberately muddying the waters between the natural behaviors of all so-called submissives.”

“So you’re claiming that the ‘test for genetic purity’ is actually a way for the Federation to discover the identity of those people born Subplex and then the Mariposa and Polilla training is done to brainwash these Subplex to behave like biological Submissives? And that leads into _all_ biological submissives facing discrimination to camouflage the necessity to oppress Subplex?”

“Basically,” Castiel agreed.

“But why? Why the fuck does it matter how Subplex behave?”

Castiel winced slightly. “You probably won’t like my answer,” he warned.

“I’m not liking any of this bullshit,” Dey’n spat. “So don’t hold back on my account. Hit me with the rest, Cas.”

“I believe, and do bear in mind this is only my opinion - an opinion supported by much research but not one I can prove beyond doubt - that the deliberate suppression of Subplex was done simply as the most effective way of castrating the Praevalen.”

“Woah,” Dey’n breathed. “You’re right, Cas. That is definitely not an answer I like. Son of a fucking bitch.”

“I know,” Castiel agreed with genuine sympathy. “Bad enough to learn you, and others like you, have been deliberately abused for centuries simply to fulfil a political agenda. I imagine it is even more intolerable to hear that you were merely the tools by which a totally different designation was controlled. You and all other Subplex were sacrificed because of the fear caused by the idea of unbound Praevalen.”

“Because the Praevalen are supposed to have these mystical superpowers?”

“Synergistic ‘superpowers’,” Castiel corrected. “From that point of view, you could say the powers actually belong to the Subplex since it is they who gift the power to their mates.”

“I guess the idea of a magic cock just sounds cooler than a magic ass,” Dey’n replied, with surprising humor.

Castiel chuckled. “Historically, Sub/Prae bonds weren’t even necessarily sexual. Sometimes strong platonic bonds existed between siblings and those were sufficient to generate Praevalen synergies. So, in many respects, it was never about sex at all. It was about trust, I think. Love possibly, but I honestly believe _trust_ was the primary factor.”

“I get that,” Dey’n agreed. “I guess handing over enough power to turn someone into a super-smitey killing machine would necessitate a high degree of trust. Just as letting someone top you sexually requires trust. So I guess the theory holds water. It’s all speculation though. Without a Sub/Prae relationship demonstrating this shit for real, it can’t ever be more than a theory.”

“True,” Castiel agreed. “In many respects though, it is irrelevant whether it is true or not anyway. The salient point is that the abomination of Mariposa testing and training was born of the fear the theory is true. Though it is highly possible that those who currently promote the practice have long since forgotten why it was started in the first place. The sale of Mariposa, and the illicit slave trading in biological submissives too, has become a commercial monster with so many heads it is probably now near impossible to destroy.”

Dey’n looked uncertain for a moment, uncharacteristically hesitant, before saying, “I’ve always wondered about that, but no one could - or would - ever tell me. Exactly how much money is a fully trained Mariposa sold for?”

“By the Academies?” Castiel asked.

“Yeah.”

“It varies between races and species. Some are considered more desirable than others. I have never heard of one being sold for less than ten million credits though. Some command considerably more than that.”

Dey’n whistled under his breath. “So how many Praevalen, of any race, are likely to have that kind of money?” he asked.

Castiel blinked with surprise. That was not where he had thought Dey’n was going with his line of questioning. Yet again the Mariposa had surprised him by ignoring his personal concerns and instead narrowing in on the heart of the matter.

“Statistically,” he answered. “It is highly improbable that any Praevalen would be born into that manner of wealth.” He was, he knew, probably the only Prae in centuries to have been so ‘fortunate’ and he definitely suspected the anomaly of his designation had been something genetically gifted to him by Rowena rather than Carolus. The N’Vaks definitely had never produced a Praevalen before in their entire recorded genealogy.

“So just another way to ensure Subplex and Praevalen never hook up, huh?” Dey’n said, with a cynical sneer.

“It is a reasonable assumption,” Castiel agreed. “By transforming Subplex into something so valuable and desirable that none but the wealthiest can purchase them, the odds of a Sub/Prae mating are considerably shortened. Then add the Law that Mariposa cannot marry into the mix and you add a further layer of complication. True trust cannot be achieved within an unequal relationship. I also believe,” - _he knew -_ “that a Praevalen cannot take power from a submissive Subplex. Without parity between them, the connection cannot bear fruit.”

“So,” Dey’n said, frowning in thought, “even if, somehow, a Mariposa managed to get through an Academy without actually being ‘broken’, and somehow found a Praevalen, it still wouldn’t work between them?”

It felt like a knife to Castiel’s heart that he had to answer, “It’s highly unlikely because even if that highly improbable scenario happened, it would require a leap of faith by the Mariposa that he could trust that Praevalen. Under Federation Law, the Mariposa would always be seen as the legal ‘property’ of their Praevalen. A courtesan at best. On any planet within the Alliance, the Praevalen would have the right to keep the Mariposa as nothing more than a ‘sexual plaything’. I do not believe any Praevalen would be able to promote their genuine belief in wishing for a truly equal relationship with their Subplex mate under those circumstances.”

Dey’n visibly shuddered. “Yeah, I definitely see that,” he agreed. “Anyone ever tried to sell me that line would get a swift kick in the balls. I wouldn’t trust the asshole as far as I could throw him. I’d be gone so fast they wouldn’t see me for dust.”

Castiel’s heart sank at the, not unexpected, confirmation of his fears. Of course Dean was never going to voluntarily ever risk putting his neck inside a noose again.

“It is late,” he said. “I know you don’t need to work until tomorrow evening but I have classes tomorrow morning. Perhaps we could hold further discussion of Subplex until another time?”

“Of course,” Dey’n agreed. “You gave me enough to chew on anyway. I probably need to digest what you’ve already told me before knowing the right questions to ask you next.”

“Then I will bid you goodnight, Dey’n.”

“You don’t have to.”

“What?” Castiel spluttered, caught totally by surprise and so consequently completely wrong-footed.

Dey’n smirked at him. The Mariposa didn’t even pretend to be coy or hesitant. He was supremely gorgeous and knew it, so he didn’t bother prevaricating. “My bed is more than big enough for two, Cas. Time to break my dry spell, I think.”

“I...I… did not expect… I… um… have no expectations, Dey’n. This is not why I invited you to stay here. I… don’t… don’t…”

“You don’t want this?” Dean mocked gently, gesturing at himself and grinning confidently.

The unmistakable waft of Subplex pheromones filled the room. If not for the blockers, Castiel thought the unmistakable sign of an aroused Subplex might have overwhelmed him. Even with the blockers, Castiel suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

“I.. don’t t… um… that is… I,” Castiel choked.

“Listen, doofus, I know you don’t expect me to put out. If you did, I wouldn’t be here. I sure as hell wouldn’t be offering. But the fact is I like you, you’re pretty hot, it’s been too long and I know you want me. So why the fuck are you making me go to bed alone?”

“I just don’t wish to confuse our relationship,” Castiel replied carefully.

“There’s no confusion. We don’t _have_ a relationship. We’re becoming friends maybe, but that’s it. End of. I’m not looking for romance. I don’t want a mate. It’s just sex. Which is something every other Qui in Arthos would probably eagerly pay me for, so don’t make it weird, Cas. Just come to bed and fuck me already.”

“You are definitely living proof of my hypothesis that Subplex are not naturally submissive,” Castiel muttered. 

“You’re definitely beginning to make me doubt your claim to be an elective Dom,” Dean countered. “I’ve been lying here, reading about Castor and Dey’hahn and wondering whether part of the author’s ‘poetic license’ was his description of Castor fucking like a God. And since you look kinda like Castor, I’ve been wondering whether your cock is as impressive as the rest of you. But, it’s okay. If you don’t want my fine ass, I’m sure I can find someone else in this city to give me what I need.”

Castiel growled, the sound low and dangerous.

Dey’n smirked at the sound. “Ah, that’s the right button, huh? The thought of someone else’s cock in my ass? Because you know your friend, Gabriel? Meg told me he is a nice guy and really good at acting the Dom. Maybe I should give him a call. I mean, if _you_ aren’t interested.”

Castiel knew this was more than perilous. That this was probably going to destroy him. This was just no-strings sex to Dey’n. A safe, casual release of pressure built up over the eighteen months since he’d run from Michael Hortlan and fresh arousal exacerbated by his reading of the pretty steamy romance novel about Castor and Dey’hahn. But the fact Dey’n had decided he trusted him enough to even offer him this much, was already causing Castiel’s Praevalen instincts to kick into overdrive. If he wasn’t wearing the blockers, his own pheromones would probably have hit Dey’n like a brick wall in response.

Was he capable of having Dey’n in that fashion and then just allowing him to walk away?

He would have to be. Because he couldn’t say no to the offer, even though he knew his almost inevitable later rejection by the Mariposa would possibly, probably, literally kill him.

A Subplex could survive a broken bond.

As far as Castiel understood it, a Praevalen could not.

Following Dey’n into that bedroom would probably sign his own ultimate death warrant because he didn’t think he was capable of giving Dey’n what he needed without also offering his heart.

It would be stupid, irresponsible, maybe even suicidal.

Yet, when Dey’n left the room, Castiel followed.

It was a damned good job Dean was absolutely, completely and supremely confident of his own physical attractiveness because, for a moment, even _he_ had been thrown on the back foot by Castiel’s initial reaction to his offer.

The offer had been completely spontaneous.

But, as he’d read the novel, as the author had described the way Castor’s long, thick cock had powered into Dey’hahn with the force of a punching fist, he’d found himself literally aching with long-suppressed need.

His anger, his fury, his fear, had carried him for the last eighteen months. It had enabled him to bury the desires that Michael had awoken in his body. But here, in Arthos, in the safety of the gentle professor’s Annex, he’d finally allowed himself to remember how it felt to be filled, to be taken, to be consumed, and his own cock had filled and pulsed as he’d read the salacious words on the page. He’d felt his ass clenching and releasing in hungry sympathy with Dey’hahn’s happy plight of finding himself trapped face-down on a mattress, pinned like a helpless insect by the weight and power of his huge Praevalen mate.

So, okay, Cas only _looked_ like a Prae. But he had the seven-foot height and the huge black wings. Didn’t it stand to reason that he would have an equally huge and impressive dick? Dean had been a virgin when he met Michael, so hadn’t been in a position to judge one way or the other whether Michael’s cock was average or not and he hadn’t slept with anyone since Michael either, so he still didn’t know.

But biological Dom or not, Michael’s dick definitely hadn’t been almost eight inches long and as fat as a wrist.

Which was how the author described Castor.

Actually, it was probably impossible for a dick to actually be that big and equally improbable that it would fit inside Dean if it was.

But damn he’d give it a damn good try.

Maybe he was a size-Queen, he thought and snorted to himself at the idea. Meg would be so proud of him, he thought, with another snicker.

So the words “You don’t have to,” hadn’t been planned. They’d tumbled out of his mouth without him thinking. All he’d known in that moment was that he didn’t want to go to his room alone, didn’t want to just sleep. He didn’t want to be Castiel’s ‘flatmate’. He wanted to spend these few final weeks on Tsaluna as Castiel’s lover, not just his friend.

Which was why he made it perfectly clear he wasn’t offering anything more than sex. As much as he genuinely liked the gorgeous Qui - and by God, Cas was gorgeous - Nova Sergiev beckoned and soon Dean would be gone, gone, gone, forever. But, in the meantime, how could it hurt either of them to take advantage of their unexpected proximity?

But it had never even occurred to him that Cas might be hesitant, might actually need persuading. Having to goad Cas by triggering his jealousy had been unexpected.

Nice though, perhaps.

Different.

Made a change from having to fend off unwanted advances with his fists.

And the fact that he’d thrown out his challenge and then had sauntered to his room not actually sure that Castiel would follow had been peculiarly exciting. An unfamiliar uncertainty in his own attractiveness that had caused his heart to thud and his pulse to race. It was probably just as well that Cas was Null because Dean was sure he was sending out so many ‘chase me’ pheromones that a true dominant would have rugby tackled him before he even crossed the threshold into his bedroom.

As it was, he had peeled off his clothes and was standing naked before a low gasp from the doorway told him Castiel had picked up the gauntlet he’d thrown.

“Like what you see?” Dean demanded, his tone cocky, confident, and his knees absolutely not suggesting this was the point at which he should follow his training and sink slowly, gracefully, into a position of passive display.

Castiel growled and some trick of the light, possibly a reflection from the window, made his eyes momentarily glow with a deep, blue inner light. His wings were lifted slightly, his feathers fluffed as though with alarm… or perhaps arousal. Was that a thing? Did erect feathers indicate an erect cock too? Dean wasn’t sure but he swallowed heavily as his mouth filled with saliva at the thought.

“You are more beautiful than any art created by a Master craftsman,” Cas growled. “But all I see is your soul, Dey’n. Your brave, bold spirit is so blinding that your mere flesh fades to irrelevance in comparison.”

It was a weird kind of compliment, but Dean found he liked it.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” he suggested.

Cas clearly agreed. He divested himself of his creased, ill-fitting garments with a swift grace that seemed completely at odds with his usual demeanor. Any hesitation or shyness was gone. The self-effacing professor was rapidly lost as the removal of each part of his ‘disguise’ revealed more of the Qui within.

And that Qui was breathtaking.

“Shit,” Dean choked. “It wasn’t poetic license.”

Cas cocked his head in silent query.

“Your dick is huge,” Dean explained. “I’m not sure it will fit.”

“Oh, I assure you it will,” Cas growled, a little darkly, and Dean’s whole body shivered at the promise in his voice. “You were made for it, for me, Dey’n, and I will prove it to you.”

The comment was hot, but a little too possessive for comfort. Although Dean’s own erection didn’t flag, a little of the haze of his own arousal lifted. Enough for him to say, “I was made for _no-one_. I am not yours, I will never be yours. Understand that now or back-off. This is just sex on offer, not a commitment, and any submission I offer tonight is illusory.”

His words appeared to shock Castiel for a moment and he saw the Qui visibly check himself before saying, cautiously, “Forgive me, Dey’n. That was meant merely as seduction in tone with this scene. I am fully aware that any level of authority you offer me in this situation is temporary and begins and ends on the threshold of your bedchamber.”

Dean relaxed. The gorgeous Qui seemed to get it. Cas understood this was a bedroom game _only_. Dean was safe to take what he wanted, what he needed, without worrying that Cas would expect the behavior to continue out in the ‘real’ world.

And, if not, if Cas proved unable to let it go afterward then, no harm, no foul. Dean would return to his boarding house for the remainder of his time on Tsaluna. As a Null, Castiel would have no legal basis upon which to lay a claim on him. So if the Qui was stupid enough to get the wrong end of the stick, despite all of his warnings, Dean could cut him loose without any fear of reprisals.

The knowledge made him bold. Fearless.

“Then prove it,” he challenged. “Make me beg for it.”

And with those words, damn if that weird optical illusion didn’t cause Cas to look like he’d just caught fire from the inside out. 

His wings flared and his eyes seemed to blaze as he powered forward, his desire clearly ignited by Dean’s defiant challenge. It was immediately obvious to Dean that he’d been right not to kneel. Cas wasn’t the kind of Dom who wanted to be _given_ submission. He wanted to win it.

And fuck he was strong.

Dean had known that, obviously, from the way Cas had effortlessly picked him up and flown him to the clinic. But it felt different to have hands grasp his hips and lift him as though he was weightless in a scenario like this. Cas’s hands lifting him, holding him up in the air, so that his groin was level with Castiel’s face, Castiel’s mouth opening and sucking his dick into his mouth without pause, without care of whether Dean wanted it or not.

Oh he wanted. He wanted muchly. But Castiel didn’t ask for permission. He just took. His hot tongue licking and swirling around the head of Dean’s cock, his lips sucking and suctioning. Totally controlling, his strong hands preventing any movement on Dean’s part. Moving Dean’s cock in and out of his mouth at his pace, his rhythm; totally, completely, controlling every second of Dean’s pleasure, taking that pleasure, owning it.

So Dean could only moan and gasp, his legs dangling uselessly, his back arching in ecstasy, his hands clawing at Castiel’s hair, his whole body transformed into nothing except an erogenous zone for Castiel’s amusement as the huge quiet Qui brought him to the brink of orgasm, over and over, only to know somehow the precise moment to let go, to release Dean’s cock from the hot, wet pleasure of his mouth, until Dean was sobbing with frustration, with want, with need.

“Please,” he finally gasped. “Please. I need more. Let me come, Cas.”

“I don’t think so,” Castiel rumbled, his voice a low thunder of dangerous promise. “Because if you come, Dean, this stops. Do you understand me? Do you?” He demanded. “If you come before I give you permission, I will leave this room and this scene will be over.”

“Oh, god,” Dean whimpered. Michael had never done this to him. Had never topped him simply by threatening to stop if he didn’t do as he was told. And, oh shit, it was hot. It was so damned hot. He didn’t want to risk Cas walking out of that door before Dean had felt the fullness of that amazingly huge cock in his ass. So if the price for that was torture of his own cock for a while longer he would take it. He would have to take it because somehow he knew Cas wasn’t joking.

Damn, the quiet ones were the worst.

So he tried not to beg and plead as Castiel continued to torture him, his phenomenally strong arms never seeming to tire as he continued to dangle Dean helplessly in front of his face, twisting and turning him enough to nibble and nip at the inside of his thighs, licking and sucking on his balls, swiping his tongue over the shiny red angry flesh of Dean’s painfully aroused cock.

And then he lifted him higher, so he could swipe his tongue under Dean’s balls, licking his perineum, scraping his teeth over that sensitive skin so that Dean could only yelp and squirm.

“Please, please, please,” he sobbed, as Cas’s tongue flickered in and out, teasing at his anus, and he was dizzy with vertigo, held up in the air over Cas’s head in this insane, helpless, totally vulnerable position and it was so good, so damned good that he thought he might explode if the Qui didn’t stop taunting and teasing him with his quick hot tongue and his sharp nibbling teeth.

Dean had never felt more like a toy, like a thing, totally helpless, totally at a Dom’s mercy, and yet there was no sense of humiliation and the only pain he was feeling was his own frustration. Cas was so totally and absolutely in control of his body, capable clearly of snapping him in two if he wished, and yet all the Qui seemed to want to do was drive him totally insane with pleasure.

He felt something pressing against his hole, something slick and wet but blunt and fat and he thought it was a finger but as it pressed into him, its passage aided by Castiel simply releasing him enough that his own body weight caused him to impale himself, he realized it was Castiel’s right thumb that had breached him and that now that thumb inside him and the four fingers splayed on his ass were all that were holding him up. Cas’s left hand had dropped to squeeze and knead his own cock, and he was holding Dean with only one hand, his thumb buried deep inside Dean’s body.

Dean’s hole was clenching tightly on the penetrating digit, his terror of falling causing him to squeeze desperately, even as fingers grasped painfully at Castiel’s hair for balance as the Qui lowered him enough to swipe a teasing tongue over Dean’s weeping cockhead.

“Are you ready to beg for my cock yet?” Cas enquired pleasantly.

“Yes,” Dean sobbed. “Please. Fuck me. Fuck me already, you asshole.”

Castiel coolly raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said my cock was too large. I would hate to harm you, Dey’n. Are you absolutely sure you want it?”

“Yes, I fucking want it,” Dean screamed.

“Ask me nicely.”

“Please. PLEASE fucking fuck me already,” Dean snarled ungraciously.

Castiel chuckled and, still one-handed, twisted Dean around and lowered him face-first onto the bed. “Hands and knees,” he snapped, when Dean just lay there for a moment, feeling dizzy at the sudden change of altitude. Dean raised himself cautiously, Castiel’s thumb still hot and burning inside him. “Head down, ass up,” Castiel clarified firmly. “Open your legs wider. Wider. Wider still,” he insisted, until Dean felt like his inner thighs would rip from the positioning. And still Castiel nudged at his legs to force them even wider, before removing his thumb from Dean’s hole, leaving him feeling cold and empty.

Dean understood why Cas wanted him so wide. Cas was big, huge even. Taking that monster cock inside him was going to take some doing, but did he really need to practically dislocate his hips to accommodate Cas’s girth? He decided not to make a smart comment about it just in case Cas thought that was a viable suggestion.

Just as he had no idea how Castiel had managed to make his thumb slick, Dean had no conception of how the Qui had managed to lube his cock. Hell, for all he knew Qui were self-lubricating, but when he felt the fat - huge - head of Castiel’s cock against his hole he gasped with relief that it slid against his skin with the unmistakable slick of some form of lube. Michael had fucked him dry once and it hadn’t been pretty. And Michael hadn’t been half as endowed as Cas was.

This was going to hurt either way. He knew that. It was going to feel like he was being ripped in two.

But god he wanted it. Wanted it so bad he almost begged again. Then he decided, fuckit and begged anyway.

“Please,” he sobbed.

Castiel chuckled softly and pressed forward with surprising gentleness. He took his time, pushing forward only to pull back immediately and allow Dean to take a breath, to adjust, to relax, before pushing forward again.

It was torturously slow, Cas displaying the regrettable patience of a Saint even though Dean started pleading with him to just fucking get it over with and get inside him already. Cas refused to be topped from the bottom. He set his own implacable pace, controlling this with the same effortless strength with which he’d performed fellatio. He was totally, absolutely, in control of this scene and all Dean could do was let himself be forced to accept the Qui’s patient concern, to suffer the strain of enduring Castiel’s cautious care.

Dean was mewling, sobbing and begging by the time Castiel was fully inside him. A process that had felt endless and, honestly, had probably taken a torturously cautious twenty minutes. He felt so full he thought he might burst apart. It could have been a goddamned baseball bat inside his ass for how much it was stretching him almost too far to adjust to. And yet the burn began to subside as he _did_ gradually adjust to the sensation. Maybe it was the eighteen months of complete celibacy that had been the issue, as much as the size of Cas’s cock. He’d felt like a born-again virgin being breached after so long.

“I will fuck you now,” Cas said, the words a warning rather than a request for permission.

Dean was grateful for the warning. It gave him a moment to brace his arms against the headboard before Cas withdrew slowly and then flicked his hips forwards with a savagery that caused Dean to howl with shock as Cas’s cock powered back inside him with bruising force.

Fuck, he gasped, as the Qui found a rhythm and began to pummel his insides with his cock, which was so long it unerringly found Dean’s prostate with every thrust. Dean found himself yelping and gasping, panting desperately for breath as Cas proceeded to fuck him raw.

“So, you were saying,” Cas said, conversationally, without pausing his assault. “You were thinking of asking Gabriel to do this instead?”

“No… no, definitely not,” Dean gasped. “Just you, Cas. Only you.”

“You’re quite sure?” Cas asked. “Because I could stop and call him right now. See if he’s available?”

“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare fucking stop,” Dean choked, even as the burn and the bruising force of Castiel’s thrusts threatened to turn him inside out. If Cas didn’t stop soon he thought he might die. If Cas stopped _ever_ he’d kill the bastard himself. This was exactly how that scene with Castor and Dey’hahn had gone. Dey’hahn totally helpless, impaled on the end of Castor’s relentless, brutal, endlessly thrusting cock and it hurt so fine Dean thought he might explode with the pain/pleasure of it all.

“Submit to me,” Castiel was chanting. “Take it. Take it all, Dey’n. “

“Yes, yes, yes, yes,” Dey’n chanted with mindless pleasure. His own cock hard and needy once more, now the pain of the burning entry had been replaced by the glorious pain of being so thoroughly fucked. This was how it should be, he understood now. Not forced to kneel, to submit, to bow his head, to pander to a Dom’s pointless pride. THIS was what his nature called out for. This simple honest exchange of pleasure, with his body the willing receptacle of a Dom’s enthusiastic worship.

A seemingly inexhaustible Dom, Castiel continued pounding his ass until Dean was sure the lining of all his skin had been worn away by the friction. Hell, how wasn’t Cas’s cock rubbed raw too? Dean’s arms were shaking, trembling, burning with the effort of holding himself steady as Castiel’s cock drove into him again, and again, and again. Hot and hard and brutal like a battering ram, like Cas was trying to plough a furrow inside him that was so perfectly Cas-shaped that no other cock would ever manage to fit in the groove Cas was creating.

Michael had once fucked him for so long it had _felt_ like an hour. Castiel _literally_ fucked him for well over an hour. A relentless, rhythmic pounding so steady that Dean found himself breathing in time. Breathing in and out, gasping for oxygen with every withdrawal only to expel it in a shout with each fresh assault.

And it was both too much and not enough. So glorious Dean didn’t want it to end, yet so perfectly, awfully, overwhelming that Dean eventually choked as he lost his rhythm and then floundered desperately. He wasn’t sure he’d even manage to remember how to breathe again at all if Cas didn’t finally allow him to come.

He was going to explode, just rip apart from his own groin if the pressure didn’t finally find release and, suddenly, it was too much. He couldn’t bear it for even one more second and, even as he reluctantly admitted that to himself, Castiel spoke.

“Come for me, Dey’n,” Cas commanded.

And he did. How could he not? Even as Cas growled and came inside him, flooding him with wet heat, so Castiel’s command ripped his own long overdue orgasm from his body with a white, blazing force that almost caused him to literally pass-out with the pained pleasure of blessed release.

And he collapsed, face down, the abused muscles of his arms burning with acidic build-up, his mouth gulping desperately for oxygen, his ass twitching and spasming around the Qui’s still pulsing cock as though it wanted to greedily squeeze every last drop and then he lay there, exhausted, too spent to move at all, as Castiel gradually softened inside him but didn’t withdraw, but simply lay there, his weight pinning Dean to the bed, their sweat-drenched skin binding them together.

“Stay,” he whispered, when Cas eventually moved slightly as though he were preparing to withdraw and rise. “Stay.”

And as though the act of their mutual release had broken the spell of their ‘scene’, for the first time in hours Castiel released the reins of his Dom control and, with a soft kiss against the back of Dean’s neck, he complied with Dean’s demand. 

He stayed.

“I am so fucked,” Castiel told his reflection the next morning. He was shattered. Less than four hours sleep on the back of the kind of marathon sex he hadn’t attempted in over a decade and it was all he could do not to just call in sick and crawl back to bed again. But his physical exhaustion wasn’t his primary concern.

For all it was inevitably going to be Dey’n walking with a wince that day, Castiel knew the true victim of their coupling was himself.

He had never, in his entire life, experienced anything as addictively satisfying as fulfilling the needs of his Subplex. It had been astonishing how Dean’s pheromones had guided him to a flawless performance. It had been close to ‘mind-reading’, considering how graphically Dey’n’s pheromones had signposted his mercurial mood. With the faint buffer of the blockers assuring Castiel he wouldn’t actually lose control if he gave in to his instincts, he had followed the lead of Dey’n’s ever-changing pheromonal emissions. He had allowed each fractional change of ‘scent’ to let him know when Dey’n needed more or less, when Dey’n was close to losing control, when Dey’n would explode with frustration if forced to wait even a second longer. When, despite Dey’n’s verbal protests to the contrary, the Mariposa was _truly_ ready to be fucked. How hard he wanted it. How forceful he needed it. Until, finally, it became too much to bear and release could no longer be denied.

Castiel had allowed his entire ‘performance’ to be conducted by the greedy demands of Dey’n’s pheromones.

Actually practicing the theories he had always intellectually known to be true had been a unique and thrilling experience. He knew Subplex were sexually submissive, that they wished to be dominated in sexual scenarios and that nothing satisfied a Subplex’s sexuality more than a Dom who forced them into sexual pleasure.

Because that was the difference between Subplex and mere biological submissives. A biological might be satisfied to simply be the means by which their Dom found satisfaction. The submission of a Subplex, on the other hand, was all about _their_ own pleasure. To an external observer, it might have appeared that their scene was all about Castiel’s satisfaction. Nothing could be further than the truth. 

Castiel hadn’t thrust inside Dean’s body simply to feel the delicious caress of Dey’n’s hot silken flesh on his own cock - although only a liar would suggest that hadn’t been a huge cause of Cas’s own pleasure - but had been done due to Cas’s need to gift Dey’n with the sensations he desired.

Was it even possible to describe what he had done as ‘dominating’ when his entire performance had been completely orchestrated by his so-called submissive? There had only been one person in control in that room, and it hadn’t been the one with the inhuman strength and ‘magical smitey superpowers’.

There was nothing truly submissive about Dey’n even in the bedroom.

What had the little shit said? “Please, fucking fuck me already?”

If Castiel were a Dom, rather than a Prae, he would have probably been incensed rather than amused by that level of disrespect.

As a Prae, though, remembering he had driven Dey’n to that level of furious pleading was sufficient reward in itself.

It had also left him with a faint, but unmistakable, sheen to his flesh.

He’d woken up, languorous and relaxed at first. His cock had softened and slipped out of Dey’n at some point in the night but he was still draped over the smaller man’s body like a blanket, his cheek resting on Dey’n’s well-defined trapezius, his eyelashes twitching against hot flesh and his mouth itching to press soft kisses into the nape of Dey’n’s neck despite his conscience insisting he should simply let the Mariposa rest. Just because he had to rise and go to work was no reason to steal Dey’n’s sleep.

Then he had blinked and startled slightly as he focused enough to see that the flesh he was resting on was also shimmering. Only slightly, barely noticeable except for the fact his eyes were a mere inch from Dey’n’s skin, and yet it was indisputable. The Mariposa now had a faint silvery luminescence.

Castiel reared back slightly, easing himself carefully up and off Dey’n’s body and saw that his own flesh was even more luminescent than the Mariposa’s. His usually tan skin was threaded with a faint blue sheen.

His heart thudding with both fear and awe, he recalled the numerous illustrations he had seen in ancient books of Castor and Dey’hahn, Castor’s flesh always painted in the palest hint of robin-egg blue, Dey’hahn always portrayed with the shimmer of silver. He’d always seen that coloration as artistic license, an effort to visibly portray the Sub/Prae connection as being something mystical and otherworldly.

He had never imagined that Subplex and Praevalen truly manifested their conjoined power with an actual visible display.

“I am so fucked,” he repeated, staring at himself in the mirror of his own bathroom. Even clothed, his face and hands would still reveal the peculiar (if fortunately very faint) hue to his skin. It wouldn’t even matter in his case because he could either conceal it with a faint dust of concealing powder - and Gabriel was vain enough to use such products and had left several of them scattered in the Annex’s various bathrooms - or he could just pretend he was wearing make-up himself if anyone noticed. Though, realistically, would anyone even care? Hell, he was already known to be a Praevalen. Most people probably expected them to look ‘blueish’ anyway. If anyone had the nerve to ask he could claim he had always had this faint blue sheen and had simply decided to stop concealing it.

He could even get away with saying the same to Dey’n. The Mariposa wouldn’t know whether or not that was true. He would put Castiel’s previous ‘concealment’ down to the same form of camouflage as his ill-fitting clothes and his eyeglasses.

So, bizarre as it seemed, Castiel turning ‘blue’ was not the problem.

But Dey’n turning silver was a shitshow that was definitely going to be an issue.

Although the sheen on Dey’n skin was far more subtle, one that was barely noticeable, one that would look nothing more than a dusting of shimmer powder over his flesh to any observer, it was going to be damned obvious to Dey’n.

Unless…

And the answer came to him. A simple elegant solution that should work simply because minds always eagerly grabbed for ‘logical’ explanations over ‘mystical’ truths.

Double-checking Dey’n was still asleep, he then moved to the furthest room of the Annex, far out of hearing, and placed a vid-call to Gabriel.

“Do you know what fucking time it is? This had better be a fucking world-ending emergency, you bastard, or I’ll… woah, dude. You’re BLUE.”

“I am aware,” Castiel replied shortly.

“It’s cool,” Gabriel said. “Subtle and slightly badass. Weird, but cool.”

“I am more concerned about Dey’n.”

Gabriel frowned and ran a hand through his wild bed-head before saying, “like I said, it’s subtle. It’s only so obvious to me because we’re best buds. You can get away with saying you’ve always been a bit blue but have decided to stop hiding it.”

“That is not my concern. I had already reached the same conclusion. My issue is that Dey’n is silver.”

“You fucking dog. I knew you were going to tap that. You damned well better have done it in your own room, not mine.”

“All the rooms here are mine,” Castiel pointed out dryly.

Gabriel groaned. “You did it in my bed, didn’t you? On my mattress. Shit. Yuck. I’m never staying overnight again.”

“My heart is broken.”

“How silver?”

“A faint shimmer. As though he’s bathed in one of your silly, pretentious shower gels,” Castiel said.

Gabriel chuckled. “I now see the point of this confessional.”

“I cannot think of a better alternative. I was hoping we could substitute all of the bathing products in his bathroom for brands containing glitter. Hopefully he’ll wash before he notices the change.” 

“I imagine he’ll definitely be waking up in desperate need of a shower,” Gabriel agreed, with a knowing leer, “so I’ll go one better. Remember that time I wore that body paint, and not much else, for Balthazar’s birthday? It was completely waterproof. It took weeks to wear off. I scrubbed with soap and water until my skin was almost raw and I was still shimmering a month later. Dey’n can’t read Quian, can he? Swap the bottle for his shower gel, and he’ll accidentally turn himself molten gold for a few weeks. That will look delish and completely hide the fact he’s really changed color. Plus he’ll be so embarrassed by his ‘mistake’ that he’ll hardly be in a position to criticize you for being slightly blue.”

“This deceit is a slippery slope, isn’t it?” Castiel groaned. “I started with _one_ white lie and now I am getting so tangled in deception that I doubt I’ll ever extract myself.”

“Keep the faith, Cassie. I already have a lead on a possible suitable planet. Won’t say more than that right now, ‘Cos it’s a delicate negotiation, but I’ve put some cautious feelers out and I have a meeting with someone today who genuinely seems able and willing to help.”

“So soon?”

Gabriel shrugged and smirked. “You know me… I’ve always skirted on the edge. I know people who know people,” he said, with a wink. 

“Do not put yourself in danger, my friend,” Castiel urged him softly. “I would never forgive myself if harm came to you because of your willingness to assist me.”

“I’m being careful for both our sakes,” Gabriel assured him. “Worst case scenario, I’ll just have to flee with you and you’ll be stuck with my ass forever.”

“Selfishly, I would say that scenario would not be a totally unwelcome one,” Castiel confessed, before hanging up the call.

He felt both extremely guilty and unspeakably relieved that he easily located the half-used bottle of gold body pigment. He carefully mixed it, half and half, with actual shower gel so that its consistency was lighter and its effects - hopefully - were less dramatic, then he tip-toed past the sleeping Mariposa and swapped it for the gel bottle inside Dean’s shower. 

Then, with a last fond glance at the silver Subplex, he snuck back out of the room and flew off to purchase groceries in the couple of spare hours he had before he was due at his first lecture.

Meg was so relieved to see Dey’hahn that she leapt off Gabriel’s lap and raced to envelop the Polilla in an enthusiastic hug before remembering their relationship wasn’t quite one of physical contact.

The Polilla didn’t seem to mind though. He accepted and returned her embrace saying, “Thank you. Cas told me it was you who sent him after me. So I owe you, Meg, and I won’t forget it.”

She flushed and shrugged away his thanks. “So, no crit, but… um… you’re gold.”

Dey’hahn shuffled self-consciously. “I fucked up,” he admitted, clearly embarrassed. “I assumed - but who wouldn’t? - that a bottle of shower gel, in a goddamned shower, would be, I dunno, actual shower gel,” he grumbled. “It was too fucking late by the time I thought to check the label with a translator.”

“My bad,” the Qui that Meg had been canoodling with said, rising from his chair to join their conversation. “Remember that party here a few months ago, Meg? The one for our friend Balthazar? I used that stuff to turn myself Gold and forgot to remove it from Cas’s guest bathroom afterward. Damned stuff took weeks to wear off,” he told Dean sympathetically. “Good job the color suits you.”

Meg laughed. “I remember that,” she admitted. “You shimmered for weeks. Though you didn’t color your hair. Dey’hahn looks like he’s been dipped head to toe in gold-leaf.”

“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Dean grumbled, but he didn’t really mind. As Gabriel had said, the color did look good on him. And since Rafe had destroyed the outfit Crowley had provided for him, he guessed being gold was as good a ‘costume’ as any other. “Weeks, huh?”

“Even if you scrub yourself raw,” Gabriel said, “so, trust me, save yourself the pain. Just embrace it until it naturally fades,” he suggested, with a careless shrug.

“Hang on a minute… ‘Cas’s guest bathroom’?” Meg demanded, turning her attention fully on her friend. “You’ve moved in with Castiel?”

Even with his gold skin, Dey’hahn’s blush was obvious. “Yeah, well, it’s a safety thing,” he mumbled.

“Oh, yeah?” she demanded cynically. “Nothing to do with a seven-foot package of black-winged, blue-eyed protective hunk? Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me you didn’t take yourself a fun ride on that ‘fluffy chicken’?”

“Fluffy chicken?” Gabriel demanded curiously.

Meg snorted. “It’s what Dey’hahn called him when he realized your friend is Null. He thought he was more of a fluffy chicken than a hawk. All feathers and no balls.”

“He’s definitely not a chicken,” Dey’hahn admitted, his cheeks darkening even further and his eyes glazing over slightly as though he was lost in some particularly happy memory.

Meg grinned and tried, really hard, not to feel jealous. It was her own fault, she knew. Gabriel had made it perfectly clear on numerous occasions that he would happily move her into his life and bed permanently if she’d consent. But Gabriel didn’t have a ‘guest’ room even, let alone a guest ‘bathroom’. He had a tiny one-room loft and a small income that was adequate for himself but would barely cover the feeding of a couple. Gabriel’s only hope for advancement was a marriage into a wealthier dynasty. 

There was no legal reason Meg couldn’t agree to be his bound-concubine even before that marriage took place but, no, the uncertainty was too terrifying. Gabriel would have no legal obligation to carry her into that future marriage like part of his luggage. Gabriel could meet a suitable Qui and fall madly in love with them and choose not to keep a concubine at all. 

Meg could end up cast-out, abandoned, hungry.

As much as her heart insisted the gorgeous golden-winged Qui would never do that to her, that she could trust the promise of his soft-eyes and softer whispers, Meg’s far more sensible head remained immune to his lure.

So, as jealous as she felt, she thrust that bitterness aside and instead rejoiced that sweet Dey’hahn appeared to have found a happiness Meg suspected would always elude her.

“Oh, look. The Prodigal Polilla has deigned to return,” a voice drawled from behind her. 

They all turned to see the squat Tsalun glowering at them, his black eyes sharp and his mandibles chittering with smug satisfaction. “How about you go shake that gold booty behind the bar where it will actually earn me some money, huh?”

Since Cas graciously didn’t comment on Dean’s embarrassingly golden skin, and hair, goddamnit, Dean felt it would be impolite to mention the very faint bluish sheen on Castiel’s own flesh.

Maybe he’d always been faintly blue but it had not been noticeable in the dim lighting of Infernum. Dean suspected it was more a case that Castiel had always deliberately concealed his skin color the way he had also used ill-fitting clothes and glasses to appear less Prae-like. Dean liked to imagine it was his presence in Cas’s life that had given the shy professor the confidence to stop hiding his pretty hue.

Now that Dean had intimate proof that Cas had the physicality of a mythical Qui Praevalen in every respect, it probably would have been more improbable for him to _not_ have subtly blue skin as part of the entire, sexy package.

Though it was intriguing to consider which specific gene had failed to switch on when Castiel’s fetus had formed itself. If Cas was right about Subplex and Praevalen characteristics both developing from a totally different combination of genes than standard biological designations, then it stood to reason that there was a whole sequence governing Praevalen appearance. Every single one of those had activated in Castiel. He ticked all of _those_ boxes. Height, check. Black wings, check. Super strength, check. Blue eyes, check. Blue skin, check. Cock the size of a planet, check. Ability to Dom like a god, check, check, CHECK.

All Castiel was missing was the pheromones necessary to be an _actual_ Dom.

Which was really sad, Dean thought, even if it was a huge source of selfish relief to himself.

Dean wasn’t asshole enough to not feel genuine sympathy for Cas. It must have been pretty terrible to have grown up so visibly close to Qui ‘perfection’ and yet be, demonstrably, lacking in the one trait that made sense of all the others. How terrible to go through life looking like a powerful muscle car but containing the engine of a standard sedan.

Was it due to a simple chromosomal abnormality? If so, was it constitutional or acquired? What if it wasn’t constitutional? What if Cas had always had the necessary ‘switch’ for Praevalen pheromones within his genes but some external factor had prevented it from moving into the ‘on’ position? What if the abnormality could be corrected? A skilled geneticist might be able to isolate and correct the problem. Cas could then claim his entire birthright and become Praevalen after all.

Gene sequencing was several disciplines away from Dean’s specific area of study but not totally separate. Xenobiotics primarily considered how external factors such as radiation and toxicities affected the development of plant and animal life. But those external factors invariably affected genetic sequencing too, so the ability to fully understand xenobiotics necessitated a thorough grounding in genetics too.

So whilst he was far from an expert on the subject, Dean was confident his suspicion that Castiel couldn’t physically appear 100% Praevalen if he was totally lacking the specific gene for Praevalen pheromonal production held water. In which case there might be a straightforward solution to Cas’s issue.

Dean decided to spend his spare time over the next few weeks delving into every source of information relating to Castiel’s ‘problem’. Whilst he didn’t imagine he could find an answer in so short a time, perhaps he could put together enough evidence to point a geneticist in the right direction. It would be his parting gift for Castiel. When he left for Nova Sergiev, he would leave the file behind for the big, gentle Qui and hope that Cas would make use of it to finally break the shackles that bound him.

His plan wasn’t a totally selfless one. If there was any way to stay on Tsaluna forever, in this tiny bubble of perfection with Cas, he was honest enough to know he would _not_ seek a way to solve Castiel’s problem. Because Cas becoming Praevalen would be the one thing that would explode the bubble completely. Dean was safe here, with Cas, only _because_ he was a Null.

But, realistically, Dean wasn’t safe on Tsaluna at all. Every interplanetary ship that docked brought danger. Every ship brought the possibility of Michael Hortlan or even Dean’s anonymous original purchaser if he was still even alive - since it had occurred to Dean on more than one occasion that the most probable explanation for the failure to claim him was his ‘owner’s’ premature death - arriving to claim him. On Tsaluna, indeed on any Federation planet, safety was just a temporary illusion. If either Hortlan, or his ‘owner’ discovered where he was, there wasn’t an authority anywhere in the Federal Alliance that wouldn’t act to retrieve him on their behalf. And Dean already had experienced the way the Tsalun City Guards would be immune to any plea on his part not to be handed over to anyone claiming to be his ‘Dom’.

So he couldn’t stay with Cas even if he wanted to.

Fleeing to Nova Sergiev remained his only true hope of freedom. And that meant this short time with Castiel could never be more than a ‘holiday romance’.

But the idea he could at least leave Cas with the precious gift of ‘hope’ made Dean feel less guilty about taking advantage of this most-temporary of happy sanctuaries.

And, at least, since Cas was null, Dean didn’t have to worry that he would damage him by leaving. 

Charlie had been right, he knew. By rejecting Michael - the fucker - as he had, he had caused possibly irreparable harm to the Dominant. If Michael had been Prae, leaving him might even have literally killed him - not that Dean would have lost sleep over that prospect - but the idea of harming Cas would be unconscionable.

Thankfully, it wasn’t something he needed to worry about.

“Oh my good god, that’s so hot,” Dey’n groaned.

Cas peered at him over his - totally unnecessary but damn so sexy - reading glasses and grinned. “You like this particular chapter?”

Sprawled on the opposite couch, eyes closed, his long - still golden - limbs splayed in a lazy starfish position that would have clearly revealed the tent of his interest even had the room not been filled with his happy hormones, Dey’n sighed his agreement.

Cas knew it wasn’t just the words on the page that were causing Dey’n’s delighted emissions though. It was also the deep rumble of Castiel’s speaking voice as he read the chapter with the dry precision of a stern professor despite the pornographic content he was translating on the fly into FedStan for Dey’n’s pleasure. For some reason, Dey’n particularly liked the glasses, the professorial garments and the dry tone. It was apparently also extremely ‘hot’.

Over the last week they had come to a mutually satisfying ‘arrangement’. Every afternoon, after Castiel had finished his lectures and before Dey’n needed to go to work, they spent those few hours together. First with Castiel devouring whatever culinary delight Dey’n had prepared whilst Cas had been lecturing, then Castiel ‘rewarding’ his efforts by reading passages aloud from a selection of some of his more ‘dubious’ literature.

The fact that Castiel had a huge array of Sub/Prae ‘porn’ wasn’t deliberate. He’d collected most of those particular books simply to save them from destruction and, honestly, had avoided actually reading most of them because they had only served to remind him of what he couldn’t have. But with Dey’n as an appreciative audience, Castiel was discovering the books he had formerly dismissed in his mind as ‘popular trash’ were actually remarkably enjoyable. Even if Dey’n insisted he read them as dryly as textbooks whilst still dressed in his suit and, if it wasn’t too warm a day, preferably his ratty creased raincoat too.

Apparently ‘scruffy, stern, but hot Professor’ was one of his Mariposa’s personal kinks.

Castiel had no objections.

“There’s just something really sexy about that particular scene,” Dey’n said. “Castor being fully clothed, trying to have a serious, important conversation with an uptight royal advisor, and both of them trying to be all formal and polite and shit, so pretending not to notice the fact that Dey’hahn has walked into the room buck-naked, shamelessly jumped onto Castor’s lap and is now just pleasuring himself on Castor’s cock as though he is as completely unaware the advisor is there at all.”

Castiel frowned, a little confused. “I thought your primary objection to the way that Mariposa are trained is the fact they are often expected to be naked in public and are frequently sexually used by their fully clothed ‘Masters’ in front of other people. Did you not claim that ‘disrespect’ proved how they are seen as nothing more than toys and objects? You were livid the other evening when a newscast showed the footage of the latest interplanetary climate conference and the President of Opiana started publically fucking his Mariposa when he got bored with the proceedings. And rightly so,” he added firmly. “It was immensely disrespectful to everyone present, but particularly offensive to treat his Subplex in such a manner.”

“It’s all context,” Dean argued. “Firstly, the President of Opiana isn’t even a biological, let alone a Prae. I don’t even think he’s a Dom at all. He’s just a rich, jumped-up fucker with a tiny dick who bought that poor bastard as a plaything and just parades him around to prove how rich he is. And that’s even more offensive to me now I understand what Subplex actually are. But the reason I find the scene in the book hot is that, in this instance, it is clearly Castor who is the object and Castor’s cock that is the ‘toy’. Dey’hahn didn’t ask for permission to jump on and take a ride. Dey’hahn didn’t ask whether the official would mind witnessing it. He just saw what he wanted and took it and didn’t give a shit who might be offended.”

“It could be argued that your position is one of hypocrisy,” Castiel pointed out mildly.

“Sue me,” Dey’n replied carelessly. “Firstly, Dey’hahn and Castor are in a relationship. They are legal equals in _their_ society. It doesn’t matter that Castor was a prince. As his mate, Dey’hahn was considered royalty too and had the same legal protections. That changes the whole situation completely. And, yes, before you start ‘Professor’, I know abuse can still happen inside ‘normal’ relationships too, but Dey’hahn loved to turn the tables on people’s expectations and Castor never objected to any of his lover’s behavior. I guess the really telling point of difference is that it’s easy to rape an unwilling ass. Much harder to ‘rape’ a soft cock. If Castor hadn’t wanted to be ridden in this scene, he couldn’t have been. Maybe he was secretly thrilled to get his humongous Prae dick out in front of that prim asshole of an advisor. If the story had been told from Castor’s point of view, I bet we’d have been told he thought it was hysterically funny.”

“A good argument, but based on assumption and definitely not flawless. One needs to remember that Castor would have been physically influenced by Dey’hahn’s pheromones. I am uncertain whether he would even have been capable of denying the compulsion to offer Dey’hahn what he demanded even if he was secretly mortified by Dey’hahn’s behavior.”

“Are you just doing your professory devil’s advocate thing, or do you really believe that?” Dey’n asked, sitting up on the couch, his eyes bright with mischief.

“A little of both,” Cas chuckled. “I just don’t think you can discount pheromones in this scenario. Without specific prior verbal permission between both parties, the enacting of this scene was possibly abusive on Dey’hahn’s part regardless of how ‘hot’ it is to read. This is, in my opinion, an example of the author playing for the audience rather than dealing with the underlying moralistic issues.”

“Hmmmm,” Dey’n said, standing up and beginning to peel off his clothing.

“What are you doing?” Castiel squeaked, dropping the textbook in shock.

“Applying scientific testing to the problem,” Dey’n grinned. Now totally naked, he prowled towards the seated, fully-clothed professor. “I’m planning on taking a ride. Unless you have any specific objections, Professor Ll’ell.”

“You said… said… said bedroom only,” Castiel reminded him hurriedly. “You said scenes were for bedroom only. Always.”

“I changed my mind,” Dey’n said, straddling Castiel’s legs and reaching for his zipper. His fingers trailing significantly over the bulging proof of Castiel’s interest. “Last chance, Professor. You have approximately thirty seconds to say ‘no’, or you can fold your hand and admit Castor’s permission was always a given. No one is ever going to say ‘no’ to being ridden by a Subplex.”

He offered Castiel such a smirk of supreme confidence that Cas’s heart leaped in his chest. The Mariposa was so stunning like this. Free, confident, cocky, magnificent. It actually burned his soul that Dey’n, and others like him, had ever had that power deliberately stripped from them. To see Dey’n blossoming like this, freeing himself completely from the scars of his past, was awe-inspiring, sobering, a gift beyond measure. 

One possibly even worth dying for.

As Cas’s cock sprang free and was enveloped easily inside Dey’ns greedy heat - after a week of ‘scenes’ taking place between them at any, and every, convenient moment, Dey’n’s ability to easily accept Castiel’s cock inside him had been firmly established but it still seemed improbable that Dey’n could simply sit down on him in that way - he spread his arms in a gesture of defeat and allowed himself to be ‘used’. “Masterfully argued. I concede.”

“So I’ve come up with three potential independent planets,” Gabriel said, as they sat in Infernum together, waiting for Dey’n’s shift to end so that Castiel could escort him home. “There are more, obviously, but logistically I have to consider the ability to reach them alongside their actual suitability. They’ll all work but each has pros and cons. Nicazimerre is possibly _your_ best option, because it already has a Qui settlement and all of those guys espouse traditional values. They’ve reverted to pre Federation beliefs and are hungry to understand the true Ancient history of Tsaluna so would welcome you with open arms as a scholar. On the downside, they aren’t just anti-Fed. They want to return to the way the Qui were before the Tsalun evolved to become our secondary race.”

“Not a totally unreasonable proposition,” Castiel countered. “Whilst I am proud of our ancestors embracing the evolution of the Tsalun from intelligent beasts to a unique fully sapient species, whereas the evolution of secondary races on most planets resulted in conflict, war or even genocide, there is an undoubted truth that the Qui declined more rapidly as the Tsalun ascended. In many ways, we have become relics on our own planet. The Qui are a race just waiting to fade into history. In a few centuries more, Tsaluna will probably belong purely to the Tsalun and the Qui will be no more. I cannot blame a few brave souls from choosing to start anew without the Tsalun as competition for resources.”

“I would agree with you if that were the case, that these Qui wish only to free themselves and start afresh. Unfortunately, there seems a degree of Anti-Tsalun xenophobia in their literature. A suggestion that they directly blame the Tsalun for the decline of the Qui. I could be wrong, but my instincts tell me they are less bold adventurers than bitter isolationists blaming all other races for what is, after all, simply the natural erosion of time. I suspect their dislike of Tsalun might eventually extend to discrimination against all non-Qui.”

“Ah,” Castiel sighed. “Then I doubt I would enjoy Nicazimerre. Closed minds are frustrating students, even if their narrow perspective on life might be more initially welcoming of my truths. I long to change opinions, throw the wrong-doing of certain factions of the Federation under the spotlight of public scrutiny. But I do not wish my truths to be used to fuel the prejudice of _bigots_. Besides, I cannot see a planet like that being welcoming to Dey’n. There is little point freeing him of the prejudice caused by his designation, only to replace it with hatred of his entire _species_.”

“Yeah,” Gabriel agreed. “I already back-burnered Nicazimerre. I know your priority is finding a world where _he_ would be welcome and free and whilst I don’t know he would be unwelcome on Nica, my instincts are telling me it’s a bad bet.”

“I concur. Forget a back-burner. Dump it completely. Remember this is not about me at all. Concentrate on Dey’n’s needs because if he is unhappy, I will be more unhappy anyway.”

“You, my friend, have got it bad,” Gabriel chuckled. Then his expression sobered a little. “To be honest, it worries me. Your skin color. His apparent skin color underneath that delicious gold paint. It smacks of ‘bonding’ to me. I don’t know how it works for Sub and Prae - let’s face it, nobody knows for sure - but it stands to reason that it has to be as intense, if not more, than a biological bond. I’m beginning to fear that you could end up seriously damaged if he rejects you when he finds out the truth and we both have to accept the very good possibility that he might.”

Castiel shuddered under his skin, but he kept his expression deliberately calm and steady. He had become worryingly good at acting over the last few weeks. “Nonsense,” he said. “I haven’t been stupid enough to bond with him. I knew going into this that Dey’n was only offering me ‘sex’. In reality, it is no different from me making regular use of a genuine Polilla except that my bank balance is not getting decimated. I have not made the mistake of believing he has anything other than mere affection for me. His term for our relationship is ‘friends with benefits’, which is, I believe, the same way Meg says she feels about you. Although, considering how little she charges you for her occasional sleep-overs, I suspect she genuinely cares about you far more than that. I know she charges you an hour and then stays all night.”

“Don’t try to change the subject with distraction, Cassie. Meg and I are both Null. Besides, I understand her. She’s a Delt. She’s so terrified of finding herself back in the extreme poverty of a refugee camp that she can’t stop herself biting the hand that tries to pet her. But given how driven she is by her instincts, by her fears, the fact she undercharges me is as good as her standing in the middle of the Plaza and yelling that she loves me. And… and I definitely love her, Castiel. I really do. I think… no, I _know_ … I’m going to accept Abaddon’s offer of marriage.”

Since Castiel had been in the process of taking a drink, he spluttered and almost choked. “You’re WHAT?”

“I know,” Gabriel groaned. “I loathe her and her entire family, but they are stupidly wealthy at least.”

“She’s twice your age, insane as a March hare and her entire dynasty have been ostracised by polite High Qui society for decades. They might be rich, but they are considered beneath contempt by anyone of ‘breeding’.”

“You snob,” Gabriel chuckled.

Castiel rolled his eyes. “You know I don’t give a shit about public opinion. But it’s foolish to pretend it doesn’t exist and have significant power. I know Abaddon thinks by bringing someone of your bloodline into her family, she will gain some of your respectability. But I fear she’s wrong. I think you and your family will simply be tainted by the association.”

“You’re not wrong,” Gabriel agreed. “But being respectable but bankrupt is highly overrated Cassie and, since I am not even a biological, my only appeal to anyone of wealth is my ancient, if impoverished, bloodline and Abaddon is the only one desperate enough to need it.”

“So you are going to marry that crazy bitch just so you can offer Meg the security she needs to dare to commit to you?”

Gabriel shrugged. “Can’t see a better alternative. If I don’t marry Abaddon, I’m going to lose Meg and that, my friend, is not something I can live with. The marriage is a price I’m willing to pay.”

Castiel’s heart ached. It was bad enough knowing his own relationship with Dey’n was probably fated to come to nothing in the end. He had accepted that probability. He’d even accepted he would probably not survive it. The idea that Gabriel was facing a similarly terrible, if less suicidal, fate due to love was unbearable.

And the solution was so obvious to him, suddenly.

It wouldn’t solve his problem. He doubted anything could. But accepting that, in knowing he possibly wouldn’t survive long enough to spend even a fraction of his own wealth anyway, gave him an idea. He could ensure Gabriel’s happiness and also provide Dey’n with the security of having friends to help and support him in his new life.

Before he could open his mouth to blurt out his sudden idea, the whole bar went abruptly silent before, in the pregnant expectant pause, a clear deep voice snarled, “Move it or lose it, Asshole.”

“Here we go again,” Gabriel smirked, settling back to enjoy the show.

Castiel groaned and forced himself to flatten his alulas. Every evening, without fail, some drunken idiot would do it. Cas suspected it had become somewhat of a hazing game to the students. Get some victim drunk enough, wound up enough, to approach the bar and then stand back and enjoy the resultant carnage.

Gabriel, like every other customer of Infernum - not to mention the smug, smirking squat Tsalun standing near the bar but not interfering - was just waiting to see what Dey’n did to _this_ particular hapless idiot.

Even Dey’n seemed to enjoy the nightly spectacle. Castiel suspected the Mariposa welcomed the opportunity to expend a little of the fury built up over more than a decade of repression, the chance to make various Doms pay, if just a little, for the indignities he’d suffered. Dey’n never really hurt the stupid ‘kids’. The odd bruise, now and then an actual broken bone, a couple of times a wound from a smashed bottle. Dey’n fought swift and dirty and settled the ‘assaults’ with rarely more than a punch or two.

Castiel, alone, was the one who suffered from the incidents. He was the one who found it almost impossible to simply stand back and watch Dey’n handle his own shit instead. It took every ounce of Castiel’s self-control to repress his instinctive urge to leave each and every Qui who dared touch Dey’n as nothing more than a burned, bloody smear on the bar.

This dichotomy always left him feeling like his soul was being shredded. This careful mental tightrope he walked between his need to protect with his knowledge that enforcing his protection would cause harm. Dey’n did not want him to jump in like a ‘hero’. In fact, Dey’n had told him, in no uncertain terms, to keep his ‘fake-Dom bullshit’ to himself whenever they were in public. Dey’n did not need, nor want, his ‘protection’ inside the bar.

“Is it just me,” Gabriel asked, frowning speculatively, “or is your butterfly becoming more and more of a dragonfly?”

“What?” Castiel demanded, too distracted by the sight of Dey’n grasping the arm that had grasped his bicep and twisting it with an audible crack to parse Gabriel’s words.

“He gets visibly stronger daily,” Gabriel said. “At first I thought it was just his confidence building and a proficiency built from practice but, nah, he’s a human, Cassie. No amount of practice or conditioning should give a human the strength to break a Qui’s wrist like that. I think your hypothesis about Sub/Prae relationships needs tweaking. It isn’t just the _Prae_ who gets gifted with superpowers. Sure it’s less dramatic, just as that glow you described on his skin was apparently far less obvious, but one way or another, you aren’t just filling his ass with cum, my friend. I think you’re pumping him full of significantly more than that.”

Was he? Castiel considered. He suspected Gabriel was right. It even made sense, really. A Subplex had to be gifted at least a degree of additional strength from a bonding or their vulnerability would become too much of a liability to the Praevalen who had mated them. If a Prae couldn’t survive a broken bond, then a Subplex had to be physically capable of protecting themselves too. It made logical sense, even if it was less ‘romantic’ than the idea they were helplessly dependent on their super-powered mates.

Castiel suspected he’d fallen for the very thing he always warned his students to avoid. He’d allowed his consideration of the facts to be tainted by authorial license. The histories were written for audiences eager to consider figures such as Castor as the ‘heroes’ and characters like Dey’hahn to be their fairytale ‘princesses’, their ‘damsels in distress’. Even the more pornographic tomes that applauded the idea of Subplex as almost predatory Incubi still portrayed them as always physically vulnerable and in complete need of their big, strong ‘protective’ mates.

Which, now he thought about it was insane anyway. The kind of sexual marathons described in the books - the type that he and Dey’n were performing daily for real - weren’t even physically possible for normal physiologies.

Good grief. How had he been so blind?

If Dey’n hadn’t somehow been physically altered by their coupling, Castiel would probably have already inadvertently killed him by now.

The previous evening, they had returned from Infernum just after midnight and Castiel hadn’t finally collapsed with exhaustion until five in the morning. Almost five hours of steady, constant, unrelenting fucking. Of Dey’n howling and screaming and begging for release although he hadn’t really _meant_ it until his pheromones had finally snapped from hungry desire to forceful demand long after the point when Castiel would have been happy to just call it a day.

Hell, it was surprising Dey’n hadn’t killed _him_ by now.

So they had bonded. He could no longer pretend otherwise. He’d known it, really, since he’d woken up and seen the silvery sheen on Dey’n’s skin. He’d just tried to convince himself it hadn’t meant what it clearly _had_ meant. Because he hadn’t wanted to believe it. Hadn’t wanted to accept the consequences of the truth.

The fact that he could no longer even hope moving to another planet might allow Dey’n a free choice to accept him as being Praevalen.

He’d taken that choice away from the Subplex.

Dey’n knew about Sub/Prae bonds now. Dey’n knew what happened to a Prae if the bond broke. Dey’n knew that Castor hadn’t died in battle. He’d died because Dey’hahn had eventually succumbed to old age and Castor hadn’t been able to survive the loss.

So his plan to take Dey’n to a new, free world, reveal his deceit and throw himself at Dey’n’s mercy and pray for forgiveness was doomed to failure. How was that conversation supposed to go? “Oh, by the way, I’m a Praevalen and you’re my mate but you’re free to tell me to get lost, except that I will die a long, lingering, terrible death if you do. But no pressure. Don’t feel obligated. Don’t feel trapped.”

Castiel took a deep, shuddering breath and then released it.

It was okay, he decided. He could do this. He had an idea that would ensure Dey’n, Gabriel and even sweet, snarling Meg would get happy endings. That would be enough.

That would make all of this worthwhile.

He turned to his friend, “Tell me about the other two planets.”

“What do you think?” Dean asked earnestly, his eyes wide and hopeful.

The woman frowned unhappily and shook her head. “I just can’t see it flying,” she told him sadly. “As happy as the colony are with the quality of your CV, it still took a lot of persuading for them to waive your claim fee. The whole economy of Nova Sergiev is finely balanced. As an engineer, a scientist and a physically strong individual they decided, as Charlie was sure they would, that you were too valuable to turn down but every single member of the current collective not only had to vote unanimously to accept you but every family had to accept a voluntary 1% drop of their own holding in future mining revenue to cover your share. They all decided to invest in you, in the hope your presence would ultimately benefit them all.”

“Really?” Dean demanded, torn between being awed and thrilled. They really wanted him that much? He was welcomed enough that the other colonists had actually paid his settlement fee on his behalf?

“Honestly,” Doratea confirmed, with an expansive grin. “I really wish I’d thought to vid the town meeting they held to discuss you. It was pretty explosive at times, but ultimately not one of them voted no. You’re welcome there, Dean. In fact, by the time they had talked themselves into it they were so eager to have you that they tried to make me promise I would pick you up and take you straight back, rather than stay in port here for my scheduled two weeks.”

“Fortunately for both you and my darling wife, Dor was far too sensible to agree,” Charlie cut in, as she flew back to join them carrying a bottle of wine that was almost as big as herself. “It’s bad enough being married to a pilot who spends two-thirds of the year off-planet without her cutting short one of her rare visits home.”

“I understand that completely,” Dean agreed. “But, you really think there’s no chance of…”

“In another few years, maybe,” Charlie suggested, with her own hopeful look in Doratea’s direction.

Her wife, who was of a species a Dean was totally unfamiliar with - and he decided it would be rude to ask - sighed and shrugged. “Possibly,” she allowed. “In a few years, when they inevitably start reproducing, they’ll need a teacher there. Plus, by then you might have earned enough to pay his settlement fee yourself. The initial surveys suggest the planet is incredibly rich in valuable minerals. It’s just a case of finding a way to extract them without creating an environmental disaster.”

Dean nodded his understanding of Nova Sergiev’s unique challenges. The planet was home to a silicon-based crystalline lifeform that had been judged possibly sentient, though the jury was still out on whether it was actually sapient. The original Faelar colonists hadn’t been miners at all. They had been a group of environmental activists who had settled the world primarily to prevent more unscrupulous colonists arriving to strip the resources without care for the native life forms.

A couple of decades down the line, the Faelar had found a way of existing symbiotically with the living crystals and had found ways of extracting some of the minerals from beneath the ground without disturbing the live ‘beings’ on the surface. 

Nova Sergiev had opened itself to colonization by a small group of Molgaten, gaseous beings who could flow through minute cracks in the world’s crust, finding harmless routes to its buried treasure, and then to a small colony of Earth Humans who worked with the Faelar and Molgaten to carefully dig access tunnels that followed those routes. The colony had been gradually extracting enough to provide the credits to slowly build a township and a formal, but still ethical, mining operation.

Nova Sergiev was nearly ready to begin some serious extractions, was finally ready to start rewarding its patient colonists with a reward for their painstaking care, but still they needed assistance in the form of an experienced engineer with an understanding of xenobiotics to ensure their operation caused no unintentional harm to the native Crystalline life forms.

If the mining operation proved successful - and harmless - then it was likely to prove highly profitable. In a few years, Dean’s share would probably be valuable enough to pay for a dozen new claim fees.

“Besides,” Charlie chirped cheerfully, “if your theory is right about the gene thing, you might not even have to wait that long. If your ‘friend’ truly manages to manifest as a Praevalen, I think the benefits he would offer the colony would be self-evident. The Novians are terrified that now they have proven the potential wealth buried beneath their world, less scrupulous people might arrive to steal it from them. The Federal Alliance has a bad reputation for turning a blind eye when an Independent World is attacked in that way.”

“Blind eye,” Dor scoffed. “I’d go one further and say they damned well orchestrate that kind of shit. It’s like the Astrantian pirate ships. Everyone _knows_ they are working for the Feds. It’s so damned obvious. Are we really supposed to believe that not a single one of their ships has ever run into the path of Federation Peacekeepers, let alone how come every single victim of the Astrantians just so happens to be someone the Alliance has a beef with?”

“A single Praevalen can’t defend a whole colony from pirates,” Dean said, although he immediately kicked himself for saying so.

“The Novians aren’t defenseless,” Dor replied. “They’re fully prepared to defend their claims. The presence of a Prae, particularly one of such a physically powerful species as a Qui, would be a phenomenal addition to that defense though.”

“Just his physical presence would be enough to drive off most would-be thieves,” Charlie agreed, though she looked confused for a second. “I haven’t been living on Tsaluna that long but I could have sworn Castiel N’Vak was supposed to be a full-on Praevalen anyway. Last of his kind.”

Dean shook his head. “Cas isn’t called N’Vak. His name’s L’ell. He lives in the Annex of the N’Vak library. Maybe that’s what confused you. Though you’re probably just thinking of someone else entirely. I expect names that are variations of Castor are really popular within the Qui. Chances are there are dozens of Castiels.”

“Yeah, probably,” Charlie said easily, though she met her wife’s eyes and they exchanged thoughtful frowns.

“So, just so I’m absolutely sure we’re on the same page here” Dor said, “because obviously I will contact the Novians and ask the question for you, although I’m pretty sure the answer will be an emphatic ‘no’, you’re currently living with a ‘null’ Qui, named Castiel L’ell, who is a Professor of Antiquities and you want to invite him to move to Nova Sergiev with you but neither of you have enough credits to scrape together to pay even a single claim fee?”

Dean blushed furiously. “We both sound like complete losers, huh?”

“I admit being surprised that a tenured Professor is so impoverished,” Charlie said dryly.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “It sucks that he’s so undervalued. I gather none of the Qui give a shit about history, though.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “And does he know you are asking this?”

“God no,” Dean said. “He has no idea I’m planning on leaving Tsaluna at all. And… and I have no intention of telling him, either. I just, well, you know this file I’m planning on leaving for him about the research I’ve been doing over his genetic problem? Well, I kinda wanted to also leave him an open invitation to follow me to Nova Sergiev, regardless of whether he manages to fix his issue or not.”

“Let me get this right, you don’t trust him enough to tell him you’re leaving but you still want him to follow you?”

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. “If things were different, I wouldn’t want to leave him at all. I know I’ve only known him for a couple of weeks but, well, when it’s right, it’s right, ya know? But I thought I was in love with Michael too and we know how that worked out. I have form for not being able to see the wood for the trees. Maybe I’m so distracted by the great sex that I’m thinking with the wrong head. So I’m not prepared to risk my chance to get to Nova Sergiev by saying anything to him. Besides, the more I’ve looked into the Genetic sequence that governed his appearance, the less possible it is to believe his pheromones can’t be fixed with a simple corrective op. And if I’m right, then he’ll become a legal Praevalen, in which case I can’t risk being on the same federation planet as he is. The only possible solution is me going to Nova and then hoping he chooses to join me there.”

“So you wouldn’t mind him becoming a full-blown Praevalen?” Charlie asked carefully.

“Mind? I’d be thrilled for his sake. Nobody should go through life hating their own designation and growing up Null whilst looking like a Prae must have been fucking terrible. Must have been as bad in its own way as me growing up with everyone thinking I was a submissive. And I never was. That’s the real gift Cas has given me, Charlie. Coming here, learning what it really is to be ‘Subplex’, I can’t even begin to explain how freeing that has been. I can’t accept that gift from Cas without trying to return the favor. But the problem is the law that says if I choose to stay with him he’ll automatically _own_ me if he comes into his own true designation. See my dilemma?”

“You love him,” she said quietly.

“I…” Dean flushed and dipped his head, clearly uncomfortable with the conversation. “I think I would genuinely rather die than let him come to harm,” he admitted. “So I guess I do. But I don’t love him enough to become his _slave_. So who the fuck knows? Maybe I’m too fucked up to know what love is anyway.”

“I think your idea is genius,” Dor said firmly. “You protect yourself, you get your ass to Nova where you’ll be safe, and you leave the door open for this Cas if he chooses to accept the idea of you having an _equal_ relationship on an Independent world. It’s an elegant solution to a terrible problem. Whether he chooses to follow you or not, you will have done the best that you can in a difficult situation.”

“And, on that note, I need to move my ass,” Dean said. “I need to get back to the Annex before Cas gets back from work and realizes I’m missing. Nice to meet you, Dor, and thank you for your help. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“I’ll send a message to you at Infernum when my engines are getting prepped,” she agreed.

She waited until she was sure he had left before turning to her Faelar wife with a frown. “What the fuck kind of game is N’Vak playing with that poor bastard?”

“I don’t know, but I don’t like it. Castiel L’ell, Professor of Antiquities, _is_ Castiel N’Vak and everyone knows he’s a true Praevalen. I don’t know how, or why, he’s lying to Dean but it can’t bode anything good.”

Dor’s nose wrinkled doubtfully. “I don’t know,” she said. “Whilst lying is a piss-poor way to conduct a relationship, the deceit makes no sense. Castiel is a Praevalen High Qui. A N’Vak. Nobody would step in if he just slapped a collar around Dean’s neck and declared him to be his property.”

“I doubt any Qui would object but the Tsalun are far more officious about enforcing Federal Law,” Charlie said, dubiously. “Unless N’Vak formally purchased him or Dean agreed to mate him… oh, shit, you think that’s what’s going on? N’Vak is trying to trick Dean into agreeing to a mating bond? Doing, effectively, the same shit as that Hortlan bastard?”

Dor shrugged. “I don’t know. If it was that straightforward, just the fact they’ve already fucked without monetary consideration would probably be enough to convince a Tsalun judge that Dean consented to ‘mate’. The fact N’Vak’s a Prae completely trumps most objections. So why didn’t N’Vak simply drag him down to a courthouse the morning after they first did the deed?”

“I really, really hate myself for saying what I’m about to say,” Charlie groaned. “But maybe you should cut your leave short after all. The sooner Dean leaves Tsaluna the better. Or at least let’s get Dean onboard your ship. It’s considered sovereign Novian territory, isn’t it? Federal Law stops applying to him the minute he enters your bulkhead.”

Dor sneered at the idea. “Remember what I said about the Astrantians? Do you really think I could manage to leave here and reach Nova without being intercepted if I was openly offering a Mariposa ‘diplomatic immunity’? And it’s too late for me to schedule an early departure. I’m supposed to be taking three other colonists and a shitload of cargo back with me this trip and their claim and transportation fees have already been paid directly to the Novians. Until I receive the sub-light transmission containing the data package with their names and details, there will be no way for me to contact them and move up the departure date.”

“Shit,” Charlie cursed. “I guess we just have to hope, whatever he’s up to, N’Vak is playing a long-game. He’s already kept the deception going for a couple of weeks. Maybe a couple of weeks more won’t make a difference.”

“And if N’Vak shows his hand early?” Dor queried.

Charlie frowned, thinking furiously, “Then, then… I’ll contact Crowley and see if he can help. He has legal claim as Dean’s employer, doesn’t he? At least enough to tie the court up for a week or two maybe while some form of compensation can be negotiated between N’Vak and Crowley over Dean’s broken employment contract. Crowley’s a Tsalun. Maybe there’s a way to play on the growing tension between the Tsalun and the Qui to string out that negotiation for long enough.”

“I don’t think Crowley is the type of person you want to cross, hun. If you use him just to delay N’Vak’s claim just long enough for me to whip Dean out of both of their hands, I think Crowley will retaliate with prejudice.”

Charlie shrugged. “You’ve been trying to convince me to move to Nova for a couple of years, Dor. Maybe it’s time I gave in. If I’ve left Tsaluna, Crowley can’t do squat to me.”

“You’re sure about this?” Gabriel asked, for what seemed like the hundredth time, as he helped his friend with the seemingly endless process of transferring his precious books into packing crates.

“Of course,” Castiel replied firmly. “You don’t think I’d let anything so precious to me travel half-way across the galaxy without someone I trusted keeping guard?”

“Hmmm. But are you referring to your books or your butterfly?” Gabriel chuckled.

“Both,” Castiel admitted. 

“I can’t believe you spent all that money. Four claims, three interplanetary passages and a full cargo hold full of books, let alone the price you paid for that settlement land. We still need to build houses there and you need to book a passage for ‘Misha C’lln’ when you finally come to join us. I still don’t understand why you aren’t traveling with us. I’ve seen the way Dey’n looks at you. Sure he’s going to be mad for a bit but he’s smart. When he figures out what you’ve done for him, what you’ve given up for him, he’ll forgive you everything. I can’t understand why you want to still be weeks away from him by the time he demands you get off your ass and join us.”

Of course you don’t, Castiel thought. But that was the point. Logistically, by the time Dey’n learned the truth, it would be too late. There would be no physical way for he and Dey’n to reunite in time to prevent the rejected bond from killing Castiel.

It was the only way to be certain that Dey’n was saved from being forced to make a choice that _wasn’t_ a choice.

But Dey’n would be safe on a wonderful, independent world that was so perfect a receptacle for his particular talents that Castiel couldn’t have imagined a better place for him if he’d tried.

His books, his precious books, would also be safe forever, no longer in threat of being seized and burned by the Federal censors.

Gabriel, his trusted confidante and faithful friend, would be saved the horror of a loveless marriage and would be able to make a life, and a future, with his beloved Meg, and the pair of them would be there to support and help Dey’n as he strived to make a future for himself.

This was, Castiel had decided, the closest thing to a happy ending for any of them that was possible to achieve.

He hated that he was now lying to Gabriel too.

But he had carefully penned a full explanation of all his reasoning, to be sent to his friend after his death, and could only hope that one day Gabe would understand and forgive him his choice.

He even liked to think that one day, even Dey’n would look back and remember him kindly. Would forgive him enough to understand that, despite all the lies, Castiel’s love had been real, even if all else had been an illusion.

Meg was burning with excitement.

It was all she could do to keep a game face at work, almost impossible to hold onto it outside of that environment. It was probably as well that she no longer saw Dey’hahn in a casual setting anymore. Now he was living with Castiel and arrived and left the club in his company, she only managed to snatch brief conversations with the Polilla whenever she collected a tray of drinks from the bar.

But that inadvertent lack of privacy for conversations was a blessing. It was the only way she was managing to keep the secret.

She understood why Gabriel had sworn her to secrecy. Well, not _fully_. She wasn’t precisely sure why Dey’hahn was apparently under some terrible threat on Tsaluna. As an emancipated Polilla, surely Dey’hahn should have been able to depend on Federal Law to protect him. Meg could only believe the threat related to Alastair, who hadn’t been seen since the evening Crowley had discovered his perfidy.

It made sense that Alastair might wish to bring vengeance against Dey’hahn.

And maybe even herself.

But the fact that Castiel’s solution to solve that threat had offered Gabriel the opportunity to leave the planet and start afresh as a colonist had been a miracle. A miracle only bested by the fact that Gabriel had begged her to accompany him as his wife.

It was still a terrifying prospect. Colonies could fail. Mines could prove uneconomical or run dry. There was no guarantee of success for the Novians. Agreeing to leave Tsaluna had taken an amount of courage Meg hadn’t been sure she even had,

But it was impossible to live free of risk. Life was just a series of gambles, of judging the odds and carefully navigating the balancing of pros against cons.

Ultimately, she reached the conclusion that whilst the pro of being Gabriel’s ‘concubine’ had never been sufficient to sway her, the prospect of being his wife outweighed everything.

In less than two weeks, she, Gabriel and Dey’hahn would be onboard a ship heading for a new life on Nova Sergiev and Castiel L’ell would shortly follow them there, and then the four of them would be safe and happy together forever.

It was so wonderful, so improbably wonderful, that Meg couldn’t help herself worrying that something would go wrong.

But she refused to listen to that voice.

Hadn’t both she and Dey’hahn suffered enough in their lives already?

Surely it was the Universe’s turn to cut them a break.

Carolus N’Vak adored his youngest son.

It was impossible for him to look at the boy without seeing Rowena in his features, without those huge soulful blue eyes reminding Carolus of his beloved concubine. Although Castiel looked nothing like his birth mother, instead presenting an appearance that could have been drafted straight out of an ancient oil painting of the mythological Castor, the way he moved his head, the way his expressions flowed over his features, was pure Rowena.

It saddened Carolus that he had made so many mistakes with Castiel.

Marrying Naomi Novak had been the greatest of them. He wished he had resisted the pressure of his own father to accept his loveless arranged marriage into the N’Vak dynasty. Perhaps his own life would have been poorer, without his resultant position as Dean of the Arthosian University, but he suspected it would have been happier.

He also suspected, though he had never been able to prove it, that his beloved Rowena might still have been alive.

Her terrible wasting illness had smacked of poisoning, despite the inability of any healer to discover its source. Carolus had never been able to prove Naomi’s hand in Rowena’s death. He hadn’t even had sufficient grounds to hurl a verbal accusation in her direction.

But he _knew_.

Deep in his bones, he knew what Naomi had done.

Which was the only reason he had never put his foot down and insisted on Castiel collecting his immensely expensive Mariposa. Legally, regardless of how long it took for Castiel to eventually collect the boy, Castiel’s claim on the little Campbell butterfly would remain valid. And even if some other Dom - or highly unlikely, another Prae - had moved to make a claim in the meantime, Carolus would have taken great satisfaction in wasting a huge portion of Naomi’s wealth to buy the Mariposa back. Money had a wonderful way of solving most every problem.

In the back of his mind, Carolus had always hoped the universe might be kind enough to kill Naomi before Castiel ever brought his Mariposa home to Tsaluna.

Just in case.

So imagine his surprise to discover the little butterfly had somehow fluttered home to Castiel of his own volition.

Carolus, as head of the N’Vak dynasty, had his finger on the pulse of a lot more than any of his sons had ever given him credit for. He had received a report on the Mariposa within seconds of the boy arriving at the immigration desk. It had, admittedly, taken a few days more for him to establish exactly who Dean Winchester was and he had to credit that slimeball Crowley with most of his information because it was the spies Carolus had watching Crowley who had furnished him with all the information the surprisingly capable Tsalun had uncovered.

So by the time Castiel had moved Dean into the Annex, Carolus had already known who the so-called Polilla ‘Dey’hahn’ was.

The reason he had responded to that knowledge by leaving Arthos on a ‘business-trip’ rather than flying over to congratulate Castiel on finally claiming his Mariposa was the report he’d received from the N’Vak School of Medicine of Castiel taking Dean there for treatment of a serious injury. That, tied with a report from Tsalun Security about a Dom named D’Viim asking for assistance to retrieve his missing ‘submissive’ had led Carolus to fly to a certain deserted alleyway where he had seen the impression of wings burned onto a building.

He had, heart in his mouth, flown straight to the D’Viim estate in southern Tsalunna to orchestrate a cover-up, a carefully laid trail that would indicate Rafe D’Viim had left Tsaluna entirely rather than gone to Arthos. A trail that, when followed later, after D’Viim failed to return home, would indicate that the High Qui had been lost to an accident in space.

Not incinerated in an Arthosian alleyway by a Praevalen gifted with mythological powers by his Subplex mate.

Carolus wasn’t even sure which of them he was acting to protect in that moment. His son or his son’s mate. 

Both, he suspected, since they would both be firmly in the Federation’s crossfires if the truth became known.

It appeared that unknowingly, unwittingly and totally beyond any probability, he had bought his son the one Mariposa who would possibly sign Castiel’s death warrant.

Carolus might not have been able to protect Rowena, but by god he was going to protect her son.

Which was why, when he intercepted the message from Vantixian to the Tsalun High Court, he realized Castiel was out of time. He didn’t know _why_ Castiel was playing some kind of game with the Mariposa, why he was letting the butterfly continue to pretend to be a moth, but he knew Castiel well enough to know the deception had to be a well-intentioned one. He suspected Castiel was simply too kind-hearted to advise the surprisingly self-sufficient Mariposa that he ‘owned’ him before convincing the little pretty that being ‘owned’ by Castiel was something desirable.

But if his son didn’t stop playing games with the Subplex, Carolus was going to have to cover up another inconvenient, if probably well-deserved, death and that would run the risk of Castiel’s powers becoming public knowledge.

Carolus rolled his eyes as he thought about the amount of work he’d put in over the years to hide Castiel’s moonlighting as Misha C’lln.

Being Castiel’s long-suffering father was sometimes very hard work.

Being summoned to his father’s study always made Castiel feel ten years old, as though his hand had been caught in the cookie jar and he was going to be forced to listen to a painfully _kind_ lecture over his misbehavior.

The absolute worst thing about Carolus N’Vak was that he never raised his voice. He never shouted or belittled or threatened. He never did anything except make Castiel drown in his own guilt over disappointing such a kindly man.

And Castiel already had more than enough guilt to choke on without looking at his father’s sad-eyed expression.

Such as the destruction of the table in his father’s study. He’d meant to get it mended or replaced before Carolus returned to the city but, with everything else going on, he’d completely forgotten about the incident. And since he was the only person other than his father who could activate the biometric lock on the study door, there was no way he could pretend not to have been the cause of the destruction. Though how he could possibly explain _how_ the damage had occurred was beyond him.

Admitting he’d simply destroyed a solid oak table with the power of his mind probably wasn’t an optimal conversational gambit.

Although, since his father’s opening words as he entered the room were, “You’re blue,” maybe prevarication was pointless. Unlike everyone else he had seen of late, his father _knew_ he hadn’t been born that way, so the story about simply choosing not to hide it any longer wasn’t going to wash.

“I apologize about your table,” he said, instead.

“It’s in better condition than Rafe D’Viim,” Carolus countered. His tone was mild but the words were carefully chosen. His father’s way of telling him not to even bother lying to him.

So Castiel told him everything.

He didn’t even leave out his decision to accept the consequences of a broken bond, although the wincing grief on his father’s face as he heard the words proved unbearable.

Then he waited for judgment in the painful silence that followed.

It took Carolus a while to answer, an endless few minutes in which various expressions chased over his face, then finally his father spoke.

“Firstly, I am proud of you. Let me say that, before I laboriously detail how completely _stupid_ you have been. But that delightful conversation will need to wait because time is currently our enemy. So let me cut to the chase. We need to get Dean onto that ship and out of Tsaluna’s orbit before dawn. I can hold the incoming messages to Tsaluna Immigration for a total of twelve hours. We are already three hours into that window.”

“What incoming messages?”

“The L’Astrolabe docked in Vantaxian yesterday. Michael Hortlan was waiting for it. One of the crew members identified Dean from a photo, confirmed that he was on board and that he alighted on Tsaluna. Hortlan has sent a formal request to the Tsaluna High Court to acknowledge his claim on your Subplex, and a formal alert to the immigration officials to prevent Dean fleeing before he arrives to collect him. Allowing for a couple of hours of bureaucratic bullshit, by mid-morning tomorrow, every Tsalun City Guard is going to be combing the city for him.

“My first thought, before you came here and admitted the full extent of your idiocy, was that I could just hold the communication long enough to give you the chance to formally lodge your ownership with the court. Doing so will negate Hortlan’s claim entirely. Unfortunately, it will also send a flag to alert the Tsalun that Dean cannot leave the planet unless you accompany him. So if Dean is ever going to have a chance to get to Nova Sergiev, he has to pass through security _before_ you lodge your claim.”

“You aren’t going to try to convince me that sending Dean there is insane?” Castiel demanded.

“Were you not blue and in the habit of exploding Qui assholes and blameless tables ever since you met him, I might argue the point,” Carolus replied dryly. “Under the circumstances, _neither_ of you are safe in Federal territory. The immediate danger is to your Subplex, so let’s get him squared away. _Then_ we’ll work on how you’re going to survive him leaving the planet without you.”

“I will not permit Dey’n being forced into a position of feeling obliged to save my life,” Castiel growled.

“As I said, that problem can be dealt with later. My immediate issue is getting Gabriel, Meg and Dean on that ship and convincing the pilot to set off two weeks early. Yours is to get hold of a lawyer and get your claim raised, notarized and presented to the High Court the minute they open their doors tomorrow morning. When all of that is done, when Hortlan’s ambitions have been scuppered and Dean is safely en route to Nova, then we’ll sit down and find a way out of this pickle.”  
  



	4. Chapter Four

“Son of a bitch,” Dean growled, as Dor fired up the engines and the ship prepared to leave its geosynchronous orbit of Tsaluna. “I should have killed the fucker when I had the chance.”

“I know,” Charlie agreed, fluttering her wings unhappily. She hated the fact Dean had only been given a fraction of the story. If he was unhappy _now_ , she dreaded to imagine how he was going to react when he heard the rest of it.

But she and Dor had reluctantly agreed with Carolus N’Vak - a Qui she had never even met until two hours earlier and yet he still _somehow_ had convinced her to abandon her life in Tsaluna forever _-_ that the priority was to get Dean safely on the ship and away from the planet. An explanation to the Mariposa of the real reasons for the hurry needed to wait until after the ship had set sail.

Carolus had suspected learning the whole truth would drive the fiery Mariposa not to flee the planet but to instead run to angrily confront Castiel and there just wasn’t time for that to happen. If Hortlan sent further messages that Carolus failed to catch and block, the whole situation could unravel faster than Carolus could try to patch it back together. He was a powerful man, not an infallible one, and the Tsalun, whilst still outwardly respectful of the Qui, no longer worked to placate them the way they had done in centuries past.

So unwillingly Charlie and her wife had also been drawn into the continuing, increasing, and ever more complex web of well-meaning deceit being woven around Dean, the poor bastard.

At this rate, Charlie suspected they were _all_ going to be rightly on his shitlist before all was said and done.

So all Dean presently knew was that Michael Hortlan was on his way to Tsaluna to claim him and that Dor and Charlie had somehow managed to pick up their other passengers and cargo early and were now planning on hot-tailing it towards Nova before the Tsalunniqui authorities became aware Dean was ‘wanted’.

Heartbreakingly, Dean’s greatest distress - currently - was that he hadn’t been able to even say goodbye to Castiel. The Professor had escorted him to Infernum earlier that evening but then had been called away by a summons to visit his father. He still hadn’t returned from that meeting when Charlie had turned up at the club and convinced Dean he needed to run immediately or give up his opportunity to get to Nova Sergiev forever.

Dean was almost inconsolable that he hadn’t even been able to locate Meg to leave a message for the Qui. The idea of just disappearing without a word had been intolerable for him until Charlie had reminded him about the file he had left in his room and had pointed out that Castiel would eventually find it and understand.

Obviously, Dean was shortly about to find out why Meg hadn’t been at the club when he’d looked for her. She and Gabriel were already secreted within one of the ship’s passenger berths.

Charlie didn’t even know what to think about Castiel.

Finding out from Carolus that Castiel had legally ‘owned’ Dean for thirteen years, and the only reason he’d hidden his Praevalen status from the Mariposa was to avoid being forced to acknowledge that legal claim, had softened her attitude to the black-winged Qui considerably. She understood how he’d been a complete victim of capricious fate, had genuinely not known Dean’s identity until after he’d already fallen for him as a Polilla named ‘Dey’hahn’ and had been doing his best to do ‘the right thing’ ever since he’d discovered the truth.

Realizing that one of the three ‘other’ passengers Dor had been due to pick up had included Dean himself, confirmed that Castiel had been genuinely trying to save the Mariposa from his pre-ordained fate even at the expense of his own happiness.

But Charlie still couldn’t get past how Castiel had allowed Dean to unwittingly sexually bond with him. He had known Dean was his Mariposa before they had slept together. And it was obvious they had bonded, even if Dean had denied the possibility. Of course, he had denied it. He hadn’t known Castiel was even capable of bonding. Thinking that Cas was only an elective Dom, Dean would have dismissed his own feelings as just lust and wishful thinking. But reexamining his own feelings in the light of that knowledge would inevitably cause Dean to change his mind. So they had bonded and that shit was really going to hurt _both_ of them. Castiel far more than Dean, presumably. Dean’s side of the bond must have been exacerbated by the hormonal effect of Castiel’s semen but it hadn’t been pheromonal and, anyway, as a Subplex he was more naturally resilient to a broken bond than a Praevalen was. Since Castiel had orchestrated Dean’s leaving, maybe it wouldn’t hurt quite as much as a deliberate rejection on Dean’s part but Charlie imagined, since a severed-bond was more of a physical reaction than a mental one, Castiel was probably going to suffer a lot of pain.

And she wasn’t sure she didn’t believe he fully deserved it.

The fact he’d taken Dean under his roof and seduced him like that was pretty unconscionable. So if he was now going to suffer the worst case of blue-balls ever, it was probably the least he deserved. Poor Dean was probably never going to risk falling in love with anyone ever again. This was twice he’d been tricked into falling in love with someone who was deceiving him with a secret agenda. Sure Michael had deceived Dean for his own benefit, whilst Castiel had deceived Dean only out of some well-meaning attempt to shield him from the truth but, realistically, the bottom line was both Doms had been guilty of playing Dean for a fool.

Returning to the deserted Annex after lodging his claim was agonizing.

Castiel was now the formally acknowledged ‘Titleholder’ of a Mariposa named Dean Campbell, aka an engineer named Dean Winchester, aka a feisty Polilla named Dey’hahn.

But he was no longer the bondmate of the Subplex named Dey’n.

Oh, it was going to take days, if not weeks, for the bond to sever completely. Even if Dey’n had died in his arms, the bond wouldn’t have simply instantly and dramatically ripped in two. No, that pleasure was confined to his heart. It was that organ which felt as though it had been savagely yanked out of his chest and torn asunder. Definitely the ache he was currently feeling, that deep agonizing emptiness where Dey’n had resided, was a gnawing space filled with a burn far worse than acid reflux.

This was Heartburn of a different type.

One that echoed the hot burning behind his eyes.

The damage he could already sense in the bond though, was a far more subtle ache.

It had started the moment Dor’s ship had begun to cruise away from Tsalunniqui space. As though it was being stretched, longer and thinner, with every additional mile that separated them.

An illusion, he knew. The bond wasn’t a physical reality. It wasn’t truly a fixed bridge between them. Physical proximity wasn’t a true definer of the bond. It was only in his own head that he perceived the bond as something with substance, thus making geographical distance a marker of their bond’s dissolution. The reality was simply his knowledge that with every mile, with every minute, Dey’n came closer to being told the truth of his own deception.

It was the _truth_ that would sever the bond.

Not mere distance by itself.

And it was _time_ that would break it.

Now that Castiel had allowed himself to become accustomed to Dey’n’s presence, to the waft of his pheromones, to the touch of his flesh, the absence of all three would begin to wear upon him. The bond could perhaps survive the loss of one or two of those inputs, but not all three. Without them, his sense of self would begin to dissolve, his sanity shredding, even the cells of his body beginning to break down as though without Dey’n’s presence his skin alone would not manage to imprison the grief residing inside his body. Like a colander, he would start to ‘leak’. Gradually his life force, his spirit, his soul even, would start to drift away from him. 

He was not a mere Dominant, to be driven to the brink of insanity by a shattered bond. He was a Praevalen. For him, a bond was for life and existence past the dissolution of the bond was not possible.

In the histories, in the ancient tomes he had devoured like candy, he had already learned his inevitable fate. Before the moon rose twice in Tsaluna’s sky, he would fade away.

Or perhaps even sooner, he decided, as following the advice of his father - who had been forewarned of its existence by someone named ‘Charlie’ - Castiel found the place where Dey’n had secreted a file that he had, apparently, _always_ intended to leave behind for Castiel’s eyes.

Because, he now knew, Dey’n... Dean... had been intending to leave him anyway. Out of all the planets in the Universe, Dean had _already_ chosen Nova Sergiev as his new home. Were Castiel a religious person, he would believe the gods themselves were just laughing at the pair of them. Because Dean, who had made no promises of ‘forever’, would have slipped away like a thief in the night in less than fourteen days anyway.

This shattered bond, this shredded heart, this hollow feeling as though he was no more than a ghost who was still wandering the memories of his own life, had always been approaching like a freight train.

But the file…

The file said something different. It painted the truth a totally different color.

The file spoke of Dean’s attempts to find a solution for Castiel’s non-existent problem - the caring generosity of which was enough to drive Castiel to his knees - but it was the final note in the file that undid him. That almost killed him in one brutal final piercing of his already shattered heart.

“ _When you’ve tried this - Whatever the outcome - Come to me. I didn’t run from you, Cas. Just from being a Mariposa in a world where being a butterfly means being a slave. And forgive me for never admitting that to you before. For pretending to be Polilla. For not daring to trust you enough to admit the truth to your face. But I want to believe you’ll forgive me and come anyway. I’m on a planet named Nova Sergiev. I love you. Please follow me. Whether or not this works, whether you are Praevalen or not when you finally climb aboard that ship, I am definitely your Subplex. Come home to me, Cas.”_

Those words, that proof that Dean might always have been intending to run but had never been intending to run from _him_ , were a final blow that left him reeling.

Because he knew that invitation had been written in ignorance.

That it no longer stood true.

The invitation had been withdrawn.

“Please, Dey’hahn. You need to eat. I’m worried about you,” Meg wheedled through the solid barrier of his locked door.

He ignored her. Just as he had done for three days now. He wasn’t angry at Meg. If anything he was delighted for her. At least one person had benefited from the shitshow he called his life.

It had been nice of Professor Ll’ell - not Cas, never Cas, not even in his own head - to pay for Meg and Gabriel to move to Nova with them. He guessed, if things had happened the way C...Professor Ll’ell had planned, it would at least have been good to have Meg there to bitch with over the way C… the Professor had entrapped him.

_He didn’t need to entrap you. He already owned you._

Shut the fuck up, he told himself. 

He couldn’t leave the cabin because he couldn’t face Gabriel. Gabriel who had always known. Gabriel who had apparently provided the goddamned drugs that had allowed C… the Professor to trick him.

He wondered if they’d laughed together over the stupid, naive, Mariposa they had so easily fooled.

He bet they had.

He deserved it that they had.

He’d learned _nothing_ from Michael Hortlan after all. He had sworn to himself after leaving Earth that he would keep his heart shielded, wear Michael’s betrayal like armor-plating, never allow himself to be tricked again into falling in love with a liar.

Liar.

Liar.

LIAR.

“I HATE YOU,” he screamed into the emptiness of his cabin, just as he had a hundred times before, and even as his hoarse throat punished him for the words, he wondered whether he was screaming at C...the Professor, or at himself.

The N’Vak School of Medicine was on a mission.

At Carolus‘s behest, the entire facility had been converted to the frantic investigation, and manufacture, of fake Subplex pheromones.

Specifically Dean’s pheromones.

Every item had been removed from Dean’s room, every piece of fabric from bedding to clothing, anything that held a lingering trace of Dean’s presence. If the scientists could isolate the pheromones, reproduce them, Carolus was sure they could buy Castiel enough time to pull himself together and go after his Subplex.

Something that, to date, Castiel still point blank refused to do.

“At least let me hire a ship that will get us closer to Nova. What if Dean does decide to forgive you but does so too late? What if he begs you to come but we don’t have the ability to get there before we run out of time?”

“You mean what if Gabriel manages to guilt him into doing so?” Castiel countered.

“If that’s what it takes,” Carolus admitted bitterly. “Someone’s got to knock some sense into the pair of you. You both love each other. You were both _made_ for each other. I know the situation was less than ideal. But somehow you still found each other. Impossibly, despite half a galaxy separating you, Dean came to you like a moth to a flame. That can’t have just been a coincidence, Castiel. It’s like you were fated to meet. That no matter what obstacles were put in your paths, you were going to end up together one way or the other. And neither of you were blameless in this. You were _both_ lying to each other. If you could both acknowledge that, forgive each other, then I still think you both could pull this around.”

“I can’t live without him,” Castiel admitted tiredly. “But I refuse to make him take responsibility for my weakness. Why can’t you accept that I love him enough to let him go? I want him to be free. He deserves to be free.”

“Free doesn’t have to be alone,” Carolus argued.

“For a Mariposa it does,” Castiel countered gently. 

“He never intended to follow us to Nova,” Gabriel said.

“I don’t care,” Dean snapped, edging past him in the corridor. Wanting to get back to the safe privacy of his berth, regretting his ill-conceived decision to finally give in to the gnawing emptiness of his stomach. He should have known the Qui would be lurking to pounce as soon as he showed his face.

“Not saying you should care,” Gabriel agreed, with a shrug. “Just wanted you to know.”

“It’s bullshit anyway,” Dean snapped. “Dor told me he paid for four claims. One in a fake name but it was obviously for himself.”

“Nah, he did it to deceive me. To trick me into agreeing to escort you. But it’s pretty obvious in retrospect that he never really planned to follow.”

“Lot of that going around. Deceit, I mean,” Dean snapped.

“Says the ‘Polilla’,” Gabriel mocked.

“Try being a Mariposa for a day, asshole, before you criticize my choices,” Dean snarled. “You’ve got no fucking idea what I lived through.”

“You’re right. I don’t,” Gabriel agreed. “The only person who ever really understood what you suffered isn’t here to support you though, so sue me. Cassie’s the one so busy navel-gazing about how unfair your life was that he’d rather commit suicide than make you feel you have any goddamned responsibility for another person’s feelings.”

Dean flinched. “I never asked him to take your fucking pills and trick me into believing he was a null.”

“He was trying to trick a goddamned Polilla into thinking he was a null. He had no idea who the hell you were, Dean Campbell.”

“Oh, and that makes his behavior so much better,” Dean snarled.

“Actually, yes it does,” Gabriel said. “A Polilla wasn’t at risk of being entrapped by a Praevalen. Just unduly influenced. Cassie was just trying to make sure he didn’t accidentally do some kind of mystic mind-whammy on you to get you into his bed.”

“Really? Seems he managed that quite nicely anyway,” Dean sneered.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Did he? Because I know my friend. I find it extremely hard to believe he ended up in your bed at all if you weren’t the instigator.”

Dean stiffened and flushed.“You calling me a whore?” he demanded defensively.

“Whatever,” Gabriel said, tiredly, and turned to leave. “Just keep blaming Cassie for _everything_ if it helps you sleep at night.”

“The pheromone pills won’t help if you don’t take them,” Carolus growled.

“They just delay the inevitable, father. What’s the point? It’s been two weeks. They’re already more than halfway to Nova. If Dean had taken the truth well, he would have sent a sub-space transmission and I would have received it by now. He knows we bonded. He knows the consequences to me of us breaking that bond. He is, however, under no obligation to take responsibility for my own foolishness.”

“Neither does he deserve to live with the guilt of knowing you died because of his selfishness,” Carolus said.

Castiel stiffened and his eyes blazed. Carolus‘s skin prickled as the temperature in the room literally began to rise. “Never, NEVER, speak ill of him, father. I will not stand it. Dean is the victim in this. If whatever magnificent spirit within him that has managed to keep him sane, alive and unbroken through all these terrible years cannot allow him to forgive my transgressions against him, then I must accept that judgment to be fair and just and righteous. If he does not forgive, then I am simply not _worthy_ of forgiveness.”

Carolus ignored the heat in the room, he even - almost - managed to ignore the scent of actual burning in his nostrils, as he said, “I am not disrespecting your Subplex, my son. I am worried for him, even more perhaps than I am for you. When I was even younger than Dean, I remember having a debate with a professor over the nature of skin regeneration. I argued it wasn’t possible that the cells of skin constantly replaced themselves because, if so, why do, scars remain? And he explained to me that scar collagen was formed differently. It grows in a crisscrossing hatch, becomes so strong and dense that it forms a shell-like armor over a wound. Scars sometimes grow so impenetrable that they can become more harmful, more restrictive, that the wound they formed to protect. 

“When someone is hurt, over and over, when their life becomes a constant battle for survival, then the shell they create to protect themselves is like that terrible scar tissue, Castiel. Rigid, strong, protective, but restrictive. Something ugly and unsightly and painful to carry and though time might let the scar fade, the only way to truly erase it is to take a scalpel to it and cut it out.”

“I agree with you,” Meg said. “Even if it pisses Gabriel off to hear it. I mean I don’t think poor Castiel deserves an actual _death_ sentence for falling in love with the wrong person, seems pretty harsh, but he didn’t go into it blind, did he? He knew the risk he took when he decided to jump your bones. He should have kept it in his pants. Seducing you like that was sheer stupidity on his part under the circumstances.”

Dean chewed on his lower lip and shuffled his feet awkwardly. It should have felt a nice change to have one of the others actually agreeing with him. Except he didn’t like the fact that out of all the real and totally genuine reasons he had to feel aggrieved over what had gone down with Castiel, this wasn’t one of them, was it?

“He, um, didn’t seduce me,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?” Meg asked, “Sorry, I didn’t hear you over the engines.”

Considering the engines had been off for days, since they were now traveling on inertia, that was bullshit.

Dean squirmed and swallowed uncomfortably. “I said, he didn’t _seduce_ me. It was kinda the other way around.”

“Oh. Ohhhh. Still, it’s not like you knew, is it? You believed he was an elective Dom. You had no way of knowing a bond could form. So that was on him. I mean, I know you’re a cute piece of ass but you’re not irresistible, are you? It’s not like you raped him,” she chuckled. “He damned well knew who and what you were by the time he stuck his humongous cock in your ass. So he made his choice and none of it’s your fault.”

Which should have made him feel better.

It didn’t.

_“ A good argument, but based on assumption and definitely not flawless. One needs to remember that Castor would have been physically influenced by Dey’hahn’s pheromones. I am uncertain whether he would even have been capable of denying the compulsion to offer Dey’hahn what he demanded even if he was secretly mortified by Dey’hahn’s behavior.”_

Dean woke with a gasp, his eyes wide, his heart thudding with alarm. He reached for the vid-com next to his bed and pressed an internal call number.

The unit rang out several times before an exceedingly grumpy voice barked, “Do you have any idea what time it is, you fucker?”

“Gabe,” Dean said. “I’m sorry. I just… just…”

“Talk to me, kid,” Gabriel said, his tone far more gentle now he’d identified his caller.

“I just have a question about those blockers.”

“Uh huh?” Gabriel asked cautiously.

“Did they work both ways?”

“I’m not following.”

“The blockers Castiel took that stopped him emitting pheromones. Did they block _my_ pheromones too?”

“Nope. They don’t work like that. The only possible effect they might have had is preventing him from _over-reacting_ to your pheromones. They might have helped him control himself slightly. But, as I told him, unless he’d taken them in constant high doses during his formative years, the most they were ever going to do was act as a slight dampener. It was the fact they blocked _his_ pheromones, prevented them from affecting _your_ behavior that made them valuable to him. He was hoping that if he could interact with you without the risk of influencing you in that way, you might be able to have honest interactions. Though maybe ‘honest’ is a bad word...”

“It’s okay. I know what you mean. Thanks, Gabe. Go back to sleep.”

“You’re sure you’re okay, kid?”

“I’m fine,” he said.

He wasn’t fine at all.

“Are you absolutely sure?” Carolus demanded.

“As sure as I can be,” Crowley said, with a shrug. “You know how it is. Information is slippery stuff but my sources are usually reliable.”

“But who could possibly have told Hortlan that Dean had even left the planet, let alone exactly where he was headed?”

“I can’t imagine,” Crowley said, with a sly smirk. “But his yacht did make an abrupt course change a few days ago. Since he was half way between Vantaxian and Tsaluna before he got the news about Castiel’s claim, then turned back towards Earth before changing route again and heading for Nova Sergiev, he’s actually closer to the colony than Dean’s ship is at the moment. He’ll probably manage to intercept them a couple of days out of Nova whilst they are still in Federation space.”

“The vessel Dean is traveling on is sovereign Novian territory. Hortlan cannot board it.”

“He won’t need to. Sovereign or not, a breach in its hull and the occupants of that ship will have no choice except to decant onto Hortlan’s vessel. You really think a man like him would hesitate to use lethal force to reclaim his property?”

“Dean belongs to my son,” Carolus snarled. “His claim is already logged within the Federal database.”

“Ah, but possession is nine-tenths of the law and Hortlan logged his own claim too didn’t he? A sympathetic court might make the judgment that since your son has an unfortunate habit of either forgetting where he left his Mariposa or failing to follow him whenever he runs away, that Hortlan’s claim might actually be stronger. Besides, you and I both know _exactly_ why the Federal Authorities might accept any excuse to keep your Praevalen son apart from his peculiarly independent Subplex.”

“What exactly are you after, Crowley? Why are you telling me any of this?”

The Tsalun shrugged. “What? I can’t just want to do those two crazy kids a favor?”

Carolus frowned at the Tsalun. There had to be an angle. Nevertheless, fate - admittedly in the form of a squat sarcastic club owner - had just offered him a way to kick his son up his self-pitying ass so Carolus wasn’t going to hang around arguing the point.

He needed to hire a ship. A fast ship. Where the hell could he…

He paused and frowned at the smug Tsalun.

“Don’t tell me, you happen to have a fast ship for hire?”

Crowley chuckled. “Well, now you mention it, I _do_ know of a particularly swift vessel that’s available to rent. She used to be a Bentaegan warbird. Still fully armed and crewed. Poor bastards have been itching for a fight since they got decommissioned. She’s the fastest craft in the entire quadrant. But she isn’t cheap. And, of course, I would expect a substantial personal commission for effecting an introduction.”

And there it was. The angle. Crowley had _finally_ found a way to screw the N’Vaks for money after all. Carolus was pretty damned sure now who had contacted Michael Hortlan and told him where Dean was.

But sometimes a deal with the devil was the only way to get the job done.

So all he said was, “How much?”

“You need to turn around,” Dean said.

Dor blinked at him slowly from the helm. “Come again?”

“Please,” he said. “I’ve made a terrible mistake. I need to return to Tsaluna.”

“Thank the ancient gods and goddesses,” Gabriel breathed. “Finally. I knew you’d come to your senses… eventually.”

“Better late than never,” Meg grinned brightly.

“We can’t ‘turn around’,” Dor said, somewhat apologetically.

“Why the hell not?”

“This isn’t a yacht or a warship, Dean,” Charlie interrupted. “It’s a supply vessel. This ship goes in one direction at a time between two preselected points. It doesn’t turn or perform aerial ballet. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but we turned off the engines a week ago after we stopped maneuvering and reached maximum velocity. The ship’s now just traveling in a straight line through its own inertia. It can’t even ‘stop’ until we reach the colony and use the forward burners to slow our momentum by creating an external force against the hull.”

“She’s right,” Dor agreed. “This ship is a one-trick pony. It only carries enough fuel for one start and one-stop, then needs to be refueled again. So it can only travel between two actual docking ports. We can’t ‘turn around’ because if we use our fuel to stop, here in the middle of open space, we won’t have enough left to set sail again. Well, we could possibly burn our reserves and get enough momentum to ‘limp’ back to Tsaluna but we couldn’t build up sufficient speed for the effort to be worthwhile. It would take months to get back at that velocity and then we wouldn’t have enough fuel to stop again when we got there. We’d need to dial a mayday for someone to retrieve us or we’d just keep sailing past the planet and back out into space again.

“At this point, we’re only a week away from Nova so even if you want to go back, the fastest way to get there would be to carry on, refuel at Nova and then return at full velocity. But it makes more sense to just send a message, anyway, for Castiel to get his ass on a ship and join us. Any transmission we send from this ship directly to Tsaluna will take a couple of weeks. But if we send a message to Nova, it will get there in a couple of days or so and they can forward it to Tsaluna with their laser communication array. The whole thing will take four days tops.”

“It’s going to be tight as hell, though,” Charlie worried. “By the time Castiel gets the message, it will have been nearly a month since the bond started to unravel.”

“The right ship could do Tsaluna to Nova in less than a week,” Dor shrugged. “The N’Vaks are rich as fuck, right? Surely they’d be able to hire a craft that could get him here in time.”

“Back to the point, Dean,” Gabriel interrupted. “I take it you’ve decided to give a relationship with Castiel another chance?”

“Not necessarily,” Dean said. “But, like Meg said the other day, whatever he did doesn’t justify a death sentence. He clearly didn’t mean to back me into a corner, otherwise he’d have taken advantage of this situation to spring the trap. As far as I know, close proximity to me will be sufficient to prevent the bond actually breaking completely and Castiel told me Sub/Prae bonds can work platonically anyway. So I’m just saying I’d be willing to at least agree to try being _friends_ with him on Nova. I’m not willing to think past that at the moment but I sure as hell don’t want him to _die_.”

“I think that’s a good and reasonable compromise,” Charlie said. “The bond is based on trust, not sex, isn’t it?”

“Supposedly,” Dean agreed. “Maybe now all our cards are on the table, it would be possible to at least attempt to build an honest friendship between us. Maybe that will be sufficient.”

“Friends with or without benefits?” Meg asked, then rolled her eyes when everyone glared at her. “What? it’s a fair question. I mean, this is an independent world. Dean doesn’t have to worry about getting forced into a permanent relationship just because he gets his rocks off with someone. And he and Castiel are obviously compatible sexually. It doesn’t have to be more than that.”

“I said, I don’t want to think about that,” Dean snapped. “I just don’t think the guy deserves to die, is all.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Castiel grumbled.

“Nonsense,” Carolus said, settling comfortably as the pilot powered up the sub-light engines and the comms officer requested permission to leave port.

Between the cost of hiring the vessel and also a full crew, Carolus had created a substantial hole in Naomi’s bank account. Since he was going to have to face a world of pain over that, when she eventually found out, he was damned well going to get the satisfaction of watching his son splatter Michael Hortlan like a bug on a windshield.

He had little doubt Castiel would kill the human Dom. Which he approved of wholeheartedly. Hortlan was clearly both vengeful and insane and needed putting down like the vicious cur he was.

It was one of the reasons the ship had cost so much to hire. Carolus had needed to be sure the crew were not only capable but were discrete.

He thanked the gods the brilliant students at the School of Medicine had managed to produce the pheromone pills. Now that Castiel had a reason to ingest them like candy, they were doing their job. As Castiel had said, they were only a temporary measure. Their fake effects were only buying Castiel a little extra time. But now the Praevalen was fired with the need to protect, protect, protect… his eyes blazing with a blue luminescence that was echoed in the shimmering sheen over all his visible skin, the pills were offering Castiel an edge on overcoming the lethargic depression that had begun to overwhelm him since Dean’s departure.

Carolus no longer had to waste breath and effort convincing Castiel that Dean might forgive him. Castiel wasn’t being driven by _hope_. His pure and _only_ motivation was to protect and that drive, that passion, reignited the bond in a way no pills or even hope could do.

It was only Carolus who was clinging onto hope. The possibly unreasonable hope that Dean would be so relieved by Castiel charging to his rescue like a knight in shining armor that he would throw himself into Castiel’s arms with the relief of a rescued damsel in a cheap, cheesy romance novel.

He’d made the mistake of saying so to Castiel, only to be met with amused incredulity.

“I forgot you never met him,” was all Castiel had said in response to that proposed scenario.

But Carolus didn’t care. He clung onto hope regardless because without it, what was there?

“It’s none of my business,” Gabriel said a couple of days later when, somehow, he managed to ‘accidentally’ bump into Dean in an otherwise deserted corridor once more. “But what made you change your mind?”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business,” Dean said, shouldering past him.

“Please,” Gabriel called after him. “He’s my best friend, Dean. I need to know. If… if this is just due to some form of resentful pity on your part, I’m not sure you’re really doing him any favors.”

“Says the guy who’s been running a guilt trip on me for weeks?” Dean scoffed, but he still softened enough to stop moving,

“You’re right. I’m sorry. It was wrong of me but… but…”

“He’s your friend,” Dean interrupted. “Shit, you wouldn’t have been much of a friend if you hadn’t tried to twist my arm. Though I don't think Cas would see it the same way.”

“He’ll kick my ass,” Gabriel agreed. “The whole thing is so fucked up. He always planned to bring you to Nova and confess who he was, what he was, but only after he could prove to you that in bringing you to an independent world he had already voluntarily given up all the power he held over you. He wanted you to be fully free to accept or reject him, without any fear of consequences.

“But then you bonded together. And it instantly became too late. He knew the minute you realized the bond had happened, you’d understand his life would be forfeit if you rejected him. So your choice was stolen from you. He had accidentally trapped you anyway. And then the only way he believed he could give you your freedom back was to send you away forever and accept the consequences to himself.”

“I trapped myself,” Dean said.

“What?”

“You asked what changed my mind. Well, that’s it. I finally faced the truth. Castiel didn’t do this to me. I did. This was _my_ mistake. And I might be pretty fucked up in a lot of ways, but I sure as shit am not going to let Cas pay the price for my own mistake.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you do,” Dean said bitterly. “You said it yourself, didn’t you? ‘I know my friend. I find it extremely hard to believe he ended up in your bed at all if you weren’t the instigator.’ You _know_ it was my fault we bonded.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Gabriel protested. “It wasn’t an accusation. I was just saying it takes two to tango and, anyway, I know whatever faults he might have, Cassie isn’t a sexual predator.”

“But turns out, I am,” Dean confessed bitterly.

“WHAT?”

“The pheromones, Gabe. MY pheromones. He didn’t have a choice, did he? I… I...ra…”

“Don’t you dare say that word. Don’t even _think_ that word,” Gabriel interrupted gruffly, his eyes bright as though he was fighting tears himself. “Castiel found you and… and it was like he’d spent his whole life in a monochrome world and you fluttered into it, all bright wings and glorious smiles and swinging fists, and my friend, my quiet, sad, solitary friend saw color for the first time in his life. He loved you, Dean. He adored you. So much he decided he was gladly willing to die for you. Don’t you dare belittle his feelings for you by suggesting he had no choice about how you made him feel.”

“But... but my pheromones are real,” Dean argued.

“Sure they’re real, Kid. But they aren’t _everything_. They aren’t even the main thing. They’re no more potent than having a couple of drinks to loosen you up. Sure, there are guys out there, nasty drunks, who use alcohol as an excuse for inexcusable behavior but, shit, no one acts out of character when they are drunk. All alcohol does is remove all the fake layers and inhibitions. Strips you bare. Reveals the beast under the skin. People who are bad drunks, are bad _people_. Pheromones work the same way. They allow you to get under the skin. Sense people’s true thoughts, true desires, they act like a sixth sense allowing communication on a level impossible for non-biologicals. 

“And sure a bad person can deliberately use pheromones to take advantage, just as a weak person can allow themselves to feel compelled by them. But the person has to be a bad or weak person to succumb. And neither you nor Castiel are either bad or weak, are you? So you put that blame, that guilt, back in its box and throw the damned key away, Deano. This isn’t your fault. This isn’t Cassie’s fault. Fate took a big fat dump on both of you. And sure, you both made mistakes, but they were honest ones. The only question is whether you let that bitch, fate, keep running the show or take hold of the reins yourself and say ‘fuck the bitch, time to take what I want’.”

“I don’t even know what I want,” Dean confessed.

Gabriel smiled gently. “That’s okay too. When Castiel comes to Nova, we can all take it slow and gentle. Find a way. Find an answer that works for everyone. Whatever you ultimately decide, Dean, I’ll have your back too. All I ever asked was that you would _try_.”

“If he comes,” Dean pointed out miserably.

Gabriel shrugged sadly. “He might choose not to come,” he agreed. “He might not believe you really want him to. Or the post-bond depression he’s suffering might make him incapable of responding positively anyway. But that’s on him too. Breaking the bond was _his_ decision, not yours. He isn’t a problem that you can wave a magic wand at. You’ve done your part. You’ve sent the invitation. That’s all you can do. And if it doesn’t work out, if he doesn’t come, then you’ll still have me and Meg and Dor and Charlie. We’ll help you through this, Dean. Whatever happens from here on in, I promise you won’t face it alone.”

“What if we don’t arrive in time?” Castiel fretted.

“We will,” Carolus assured him.

“You don’t know that.”

Carolus shrugged. “We might not arrive in time to stop anything happening to Dean,” he admitted reluctantly. “But this ship is faster than Hortlan’s. Even if we don’t get there in time to stop him grabbing Dean, we can damned well catch up with the ship and get him back before Hortlan reaches the safety of an Allied planet. I don’t dismiss the seriousness of the idea Dean might be… harmed… by Hortlan, but whatever happens will be survivable by him. That’s what you need to cling on to. That your Subplex is strong. A survivor. He will overcome whatever happens. I have faith in him. So should you.”

Castiel glowered. “What about the others? What if they get killed or hurt trying to stop Hortlan. What if he scuppers their ship and leaves them adrift?”

“He’s not going to risk murdering the others. Taking Dean won’t even count as kidnap if he can prove his ownership rights to the satisfaction of a Federal Court. I could imagine him attacking _you_ if you were on board. He could pass that off as a simple Dom challenge gone wrong. Although duels over Subs are frowned on these days, they still usually result in little more than a slap on the wrist for the victor. But killing innocent bystanders would be a dealbreaker. If he did that, he’d never be able to take his claim to the courts and I don’t think Hortlan is the kind of man who would be satisfied just to lock Dean in a dungeon and privately gloat over owning him. He wants the public kudos of being seen to be in possession of a Mariposa. Everything he’s done, all along, has been done carefully. Even his posters of his ‘missing’ fiancé spoke of a cool calculation. An effort to maintain public respectability. Whilst I don’t doubt he’s been driven borderline insane by Dean’s violent rejection, the underlying man hasn’t changed character. He’s still a ruthlessly ambitious bastard who sees public ownership of a Mariposa as a key to gaining personal success.”

Castiel calmed down, soothed by his father’s quiet reasonable tone in a way he doubted anyone else could have managed. As much as he loved Gabriel - who, honestly was the source of a great part of his stress. He’d never forgive himself if Gabe came to harm because of him - the golden-winged scientist had a way of winding Castiel up rather than settling him down. Usually, that was a good thing. Castiel knew he had a habit, a default-setting even, of being boring and staid. He loved history and old books and dusty artifacts. Gabriel was the fun one, the irreverent troublemaker who occasionally lit the touch paper that fired up Castiel’s secretively rebellious heart.

On which note:

“Before you commit yourself even further to supporting me in this venture, I probably should confess something to you, father.”

“I doubt you have any ‘confessions’ to make that I’m not already totally aware of,” Carolus told him mildly. “I was intimately acquainted with your birth mother, after all. You don’t honestly believe Rowena would have tolerated me for even five minutes if I was the boring stick-in-the-mud that you seem to always perceive me to be? You are not the only one guilty of ‘secret’ rebellions, Misha. The truth is, particularly in view of your designation, I would be rather disappointed in you if you weren’t driven to fight injustices and, sadly, the Federation is full of them.”

Castiel choked quietly, his shock immense.

“I do, however, appreciate your efforts to protect my delicate sensibilities,” Carolus added dryly.

Castiel recovered enough to say, “I was more worried about your reputation. I didn’t want my actions to reflect badly upon you.”

“Then I appreciate that too,” Carolus chuckled.

“Did you know?” Castiel asked quietly.

“Know what?”

“Did you somehow know that Dean was different? Is that the reason you bought him for me?”

“Honestly? I had no idea. As far as I was concerned, he was just another pretty. But perhaps your mother somehow knew. She did have a way about her sometimes that was more than a little otherworldly. It was Rowena who chose him over every other available Mariposa in the Universe. Rowena who insisted I spent far more money on him than Naomi wanted me to spend. I was in the dog house for a long time over that one,” Carolus snorted.

“And then I was an ungrateful little shit about it.” 

His father shrugged. “Maybe you needed to be. Nature versus nurture, and all that. Despite Dean apparently being far more a product of his genetics than his upbringing, who knows what kind of a man he would have become had you claimed him at eighteen as you were supposed to?”

“Gabriel thinks I would have suffered an unfortunate ‘accident’ if I had done so,” Castiel admitted wryly. “I tend to suspect he’s correct.”

Carolus looked momentarily startled, but then he chuckled warmly. “I am really looking forward to meeting this young man of yours.”

“I don’t like it,” Doratea muttered, glaring at the radar monitor.

Charlie, fluttering at her shoulder, frowned at the screen. “I don’t see anything,” she admitted.

“Just wait… there… see it?”

“I saw a blip, just for a second. Then it was gone again. Maybe it was just a solar emission.”

“Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think,” Dor suggested darkly.

“What’s up?” Gabriel asked, walking in with his right arm slung over Meg’s shoulders.

“Radar ghost,” Dor told him. “Possibly someone deliberately running quiet. I’ve been tracking it for a few hours. I think someone is shadowing us.”

Gabriel frowned. “Show me,” he said, sliding into position next to her and flexing and cracking his fingers as though preparing to enter battle on the keyboard.

“I thought you were a biology professor,” Charlie blurted, as Gabriel started rapidly typing a series of codes into the radar system like a boss.

“This ship might be a one-trick-pony,” he said, “but I assure you that I am not. I may wear an ancient High Qui name but I grew up in a family that could barely keep food on the table, let alone afford to send their son to University in Arthos. I learned… well, let’s just say my talents with computers greatly preceded my current status as a respectable tenured Professor. And, considering of late I developed an expensive taste in a particular delightful Deltazoid, I needed to revisit my less respectable talents a few times over the last months, so I’m not totally stale.”

“That will be useful in Nova,” Dor suggested. “The tech there is held together with a wing and a prayer. We badly need someone to pull it together and guide the purchase of new equipment. We can’t afford to keep throwing money away on new crap that isn’t compatible with the old because we don’t really know what we’re doing.”

“Thank goodness, because I never pictured myself down a mineshaft holding a shovel. Ahh, there she is,” Gabriel crowed, as the monitor flickered and the faint occasional blip turned into a near steady glow. “She’s running on a deliberately rotating EMF frequency to appear almost invisible. I’ve set our detector to compensate for the rotations although, without knowing the class of the vessel, the compensation isn’t perfect. You’re right about the shadowing except,” and he paused to type a quick instruction that overlaid a curved line over the monitor, “she’s incrementally overtaking on a slow arc. Another four hours or so and she’ll be in front of us and directly in our path.”

“A pirate?” Charlie asked, flittering in agitation. 

“Not Astrantian,” Gabriel said, puzzling over the flight pattern on screen. “They tend to use refitted Warbirds. The ship is slower and less agile than an Astrantian vessel, and smaller too. The way it moves reads more like a private yacht. Slick and maneuverable and expensive but not fitted for actual combat.”

“Ensign class?” Dean asked, which was Doratea’s first clue he had joined them on the bridge.

Gabriel pursed his lips, tapped a few commands, and the glow settled to a perfect, steady-state. “Bingo,” he agreed. “How did you know?”

“It’s what Michael Hortlan owns,” Dean replied. His skin was still too golden to look ‘pale’, but he definitely lost a degree of flesh tone as he said it.

“Could be a coincidence,” Meg suggested weakly.

“Could be,” Dean agreed.

“Not a lot of Ensign Class Yachts in this part of space though,” Dor said. “And we know Hortlan left Vantaxian towards Tsaluna the night we left. The math would work for him to have reached this sector if someone had given him a heads-up to change direction to Nova.”

“Let’s assume the worst,” Charlie said. “What can we do?”

“We can’t change direction and we have no defensive capabilities,” Dor stated bluntly. “And although an Ensign Class has no weaponry, as such, it does have forward disrupters to handle meteors. If it used that disrupter in a controlled spread against our hull, it could stop us dead in the water because we’re only running on inertia.”

“What if we fired our engines up? Could we push through?” Charlie suggested.

“Possibly, though the strain on our hull of the opposing forces could cause a breach. Besides, we would need to burn through all of our fuel, including our reserves, and then we’d have no way to dock at Nova. We’d end up moving at too high a velocity to stop after we’d broken through. It’s a tiny colony. It doesn’t have any ships capable of catching and stopping us as we overshoot.”

“But if we stop dead and then you were forced to ‘limp’ into Nova, they could catch the ship?” Dean asked.

“Well, yes. There are tenders and tugs, obviously. Even if we broke down and were drifting unpowered they could pull us into port. Our issue is they have no way to handle us coming in too fast,” Dor explained.

“How many crew does Hortlan sail with?” Gabriel asked.

“Half a dozen,” Dean answered. “But that includes a cook and a butler/maid person. Actual crew, he has a pilot, an engine guy, a navigator and a general hand. All non-designate. We aren’t talking a private army or even a bunch of henchmen. It’s just a standard pleasure yacht with a normal crew. Well, unless he’s hired a heavy or two specifically for this purpose but I doubt it. He’s an arrogant fuck and I’m just a Mariposa.”

“Isn’t this the guy you knocked out with one punch?” Charlie asked.

“Yup. But he will have convinced himself I just got ‘lucky’. His ego couldn’t take the idea I’m more ‘man’ than he is,” Dean replied. “Truth is, without the element of surprise, I doubt I could take him down the same way twice. I’d give it a damned good try though.”

“So we send a mayday to Nova and they’ll send the tugs out. It’ll take a day for them to reach us. In the meanwhile, we let this bastard stop us and just kick his ass when he tries to board,” Gabriel suggested. “There are five of us, and I’m a Qui. I might not be a biological Dominant but I’m still a lot stronger than any human, regardless of his designation.”

“No,” Dean said. “It’s too dangerous. This ship only has a berthing mechanism and an emergency tender, right?”

Dor nodded her agreement.

“Michael’s ship uses a hard dock. And he has some kind of robotic arm that gives him a non-cooperative docking ability. If that arm grabs hold of our hull, he has the ability to dock onto bare metal and drill an access port into this ship. Problem with that is…”

“Detach the ships and he has a hydraulically sealed dock stem but we get left with a hole exposing us to vacuum,” Dor said. “How the hell did he get his ship fitted with pirate tech like that?”

“It’s just a tax break,” Dean explained dully. “Hortlantech operates a number of remote research satellites around Earth. Michael had his own yacht adapted so it could service faulty satellites just so he could claim the ship as a legitimate business expense. To the best of my knowledge, he’s never operated the equipment because it’s only there as a tax dodge, but the point is he does have it. Which means he has the means to breach our hull. Then our only choice is to either accept his ‘invitation’ to join him on board, or he detaches and we all die very quickly.”

“Shit,” Dor growled.

“So what do we do?” Meg demanded.

“We change the game,” Dean suggested. “We remove his reason to stop this ship at all.”

“And how, exactly, do you propose we do that?” Gabriel asked suspiciously.

“You and me, Gabe. Or just me, preferably, but I kinda think you won’t go for that. So, you and me, we get in the tender and hare off back the way we came. Michael will have to change course and come after us, and there isn’t time for him to then reverse course and intercept this ship again until it’s already close enough to Nova to be slowing down to dock anyway. That way Meg, Charlie and Dor are guaranteed to be safe.”

“I have a better idea,” Gabriel snapped. “You stay on this ship and get safely to Nova with the others and I pilot the tender alone.”

“Won’t work. Maybe most ship sensors can’t pick up the species or even numbers of life signs onboard a vessel but Michael and I had a bond once. Even though it was broken, he still will be able to ‘sense’ whether or not I am on that tender. It’s my presence on board that will trigger him to chase it.”

“It’s an insane plan. He’ll be able to sweep the entire tender into his cargo hold. He’ll pick you up like a gift-wrapped present,” Meg snarled.

“More fool him,” Dean said. “Because I don’t think he’s going to like what’s inside the box.”

“If it’s not Hortlan, if the ship doesn’t chase us, we’ll be dead, Dean,” Gabriel pointed out. “The tender only holds about six hours of air.”

“I know,” Dean agreed. “God, I hate flying.”

“But otherwise, I like the plan. You and me against seven isn’t the best odds but I’ve seen you fight, you scrappy bastard. We might stand a chance.”

“I don’t even think we’d be facing that many. Can’t see many of the crew getting involved. Kidnap is past their pay grade. Might be more dangerous for you, though. Michael knows my titleholder is a Qui. He finds you and me together, fleeing on a small ship, he’s going to assume you’re Cas.”

“Then let’s just hope he doesn’t shoot me on sight,” Gabriel suggested dryly.

“I’m sending out Maydays in all directions, regardless of what you two macho idiots do,” Dor insisted, but she didn’t argue further. The plan, such as it was, was better than anything she could come up with herself. The way she saw it, the more hostages Hortlan managed to get hold of, the more leverage he’d have to make Dean give in. Dean might be able to stand up to Gabriel being threatened, but, rightly or wrongly, he’d hardly allow Charlie, Meg or herself to be harmed simply to save himself from Hortlan’s advances.

“They’ve spotted us, Mr Hortlan. They’ve begun transmitting a distress beacon on all channels.”

“Nova has nothing bigger or faster than a tug and there are no other vessels in the area. Still, better safe than sorry. Move to intercept directly. There’s no point continuing to arc between them and Nova. Just get in their path and fire the disrupters. Let’s pick them up before anyone comes sticking their nose into my business.”

“I can do that, Sir, but they’ve just launched their emergency tender. It might just be a distraction tactic though. What are your orders?”

“Pursue the main vessel. No one is stupid enough to jump in a short-range tender in deep space. They’re just playing me for an idiot. Carry on to intercept the…. wait…. No… what the fuck is that stupid bastard doing?”

“Sir?”

“Reverse thrusters. Forget the supply vessel. He’s on the tender.”

“But you said…”

“He’s my Mariposa. You think I can’t tell which damned ship he’s on? He’s like a goddamned leech dragging on my life force. Draining me dry. I should just blow him and his damned ship out of space and be done with it.”

“Um, we don’t have weapons, Mr. Hortlan.”

“Are you STUPID? We don’t want weapons. That’s my Mariposa. Go get him and if he gets so much as a scratch in the process you will not like the consequences.”

The pilot rolled his eyes and complied. He was well used to Hortlan blowing hot and cold over his Mariposa. Often inside the same sentence. The pilot was privately convinced Hortlan was becoming completely unhinged and, despite it being unheard of, he didn’t blame the Mariposa for running from him.

Even the pretty decent salary he earned as Hortlan’s private pilot felt increasingly not worth the trouble these days. Still, walking out on the job on the wrong side of the galaxy would be pretty insane on his own part. So the sooner they picked up the missing pretty, the sooner he could fly Hortlan home and then find himself a decent job with a _sane_ employer.

If this was what being rich enough to own a Mariposa did for you, he thought that Hortlan was more than welcome to both his money and his misery.

“We’re picking up a long-range distress call,” the comms officer said. Considering the crew were effectively just mercenaries for hire these days, Castiel appreciated the fact they still performed with the same efficient discipline as they had before they had been made redundant when the planet that Bantaegan had been at war with for several centuries had accidentally immolated itself whilst testing a new form of nuclear weapon.

“From the supply ship?” Castiel demanded.

“Affirmative.”

“How far out are we?”

“Even at top speed, about two more hours,” the navigator piped up.

“Are there any other vessels within assistance range?”

“Nothing on my radar.”

“Ahhh,” the comms officer interrupted. “The Novians have just sent a laser transmission requesting general emergency assistance for their supply vessel. They say they’re launching tugs but it will take them almost a day to reach the target area, so are requesting assistance from anyone in the vicinity, offering Novian-backed authority to apply any necessary force against the aggressors.”

“Sounds like Hortlan hunting season just started early,” Carolus offered dryly. “We can now assist with impunity under an effective Novian flag.

“Transmit a warning, all frequencies, to the attacking vessel. Advise them we’ll be arriving hot and armed in direct response to the Novian request. Maybe we can scare them into backing off,” Castiel growled.

“Someone’s coming up armed and dangerous directly in front of us,” Gabriel said, as he piloted the tender at its top - but woefully inadequate - speed into the deep space that lay in the wake of the fleeing Supply Ship. “They’re warning Hortlan off. Telling him to back down or meet with extreme prejudice. They claim they’ve been authorized to use lethal force by the Novians.”

“That sounds good,” Dean muttered. Pale as a ghost, despite the lingering gold tinge of his skin, he was sitting in the passenger seat with his eyes closed and a paper bag on his lap. So far he hadn’t actually puked but he’d warned Gabriel it was probably only a matter of time.

The Qui was already blown away by the amount of courage the Mariposa had displayed in volunteering to jump into the tiny tender to ensure the ‘girls’ all made it safely to Nova. Discovering that Dean’s ‘hatred’ of flying was actually a case of full-on phobia if he had to look out of a viewport - something pretty unavoidable in the tiny tender ship - the Mariposa was sweating, shaking and unable to even watch where they were going without risking throwing his guts up, just impressed Gabriel more.

Bravery wasn’t demonstrated by a lack of fear. It was being so damned scared you wanted to throw up but still doing the thing that scared you anyway.

It also just so happened to be the way Gabriel felt about the prospect of them getting scooped up inside that approaching ship. He hadn’t been joking about expecting to be shot on sight. It would be Michael Hortlan’s only logical response to being faced with the person he considered his sole rival for Dean. Shooting him, then throwing his body out of an airlock, would solve all of Hortlan’s problems. Well, shooting ‘ Cas’ would. But Gabriel doubted he’d get a chance to point out the case of mistaken identity before it was already too late.

Still, Meg was safe and Hortlan wasn’t going to kill Dean, and this unknown vessel racing to the rescue would arrive in time to save Dean, if not himself, so Gabriel had no regrets.

Well, of course, he had regrets but choosing to jump in this tender with Dean wasn’t one of them.

“These guys with guns going to get here in time?” Dean asked, eyes still closed, knuckles white as he clung on to his seat.

“Doubt it,” Gabriel admitted cheerfully, as he saw Hortlan’s vessel looming large on the viewscreen behind them. “We’re heading in their direction, which is cutting down the time it will take them to reach us. But not enough to make a difference.”

“Yeah, thought as much,” Dean said. “So, listen. I have a plan.”

“We need to abandon this course of action, Sir,” the pilot insisted. “I’ve identified the incoming vessel. It’s a Bentaegan Warbird. Empire class. Loaded for bear. She claims she’s acting in response to Nova Sergiev’s direct request for any passing vessel to protect their sovereign territory from the pirates. Which is _us_ in this scenario. That means, legally, her crew can shoot first and ask questions later.”

“You said they’re still well over an hour away. We have plenty of time to scoop up the tender, then get out of here before they arrive,” Hortlan insisted.

“They’re too fast, Sir. They will catch up with us long before we reach a safe port.”

“Which is all the more reason to pick up Dean. They won’t open fire if we have a Novian citizen on board and since Dean apparently is a claim holder on Nova, ridiculous as that sounds, that accords him citizenship status.”

The Pilot, Piotr, was actually convinced that using the Mariposa as a hostage would definitely move this whole situation from Hortlan simply collecting a piece of lost ‘property’ to an actual Federal crime. The excuse Piotr was only ‘following orders’ wasn’t going to wash.

But he wasn’t sure how much oxygen there was on the tiny tender. What if he defied Hortlan’s orders and the Mariposa on the tender died before the Bentaegan ship arrived? Wouldn’t that _also_ be considered a crime? Maybe his best bet was to scoop up the tiny vessel, then turn off the main engines, tell Hortlan where he could stick his job and then ask the Bentaegans for a ride to the next spaceport himself.

Exchanging a glance with the Navigator, he was pretty sure that Chris was feeling the same way. Surreptitiously he tapped the side of his head to indicate insanity and rolled his eyes towards Hortlan. Chris, looking pretty terrified over the idea of ending up in the Warbird’s crossfires, replied with an emphatic nod.

Hell, maybe they could convince the Bentaegans to arrest Hortlan and then they could all just go home.

“This is weird,” the comms officer told Castiel. “I just got a message from the pilot of Hortlan’s ship. He’s claiming the crew had no idea Hortlan was acting illegally until it was too late. He’s offering to power down and surrender to us as soon as they’ve ensured the Mariposa is ‘safe’.”

“What does he mean, when he’s safe?” 

From the other side of the bridge, the navigator said, “Looks like the supply ship launched its emergency tender in this direction and then continued towards Nova. Hortlan’s ship broke off its pursuit and went after the tender instead. So they’re both currently moving in our direction. Presumably, your Subplex is on board the tender.”

“I’m going to kill Gabriel,” Castiel growled. “How the hell did he let Dean jump ship like a sacrificial goat?”

“I am REALLY looking forward to meeting this Dean,” Carolus chuckled. “I haven’t had this much excitement in years.”

Castiel’s eyes blazed with annoyance but he still rolled them in his father’s direction and said, “Oh who am I kidding? He couldn’t have stopped him if he tried. Dean is like a force of nature. Completely and totally uncontrollable.”

“Sounds rather like your mother.”

“MICHAEL! YOU CAME FOR ME….THANK GOD...OH...THANK GOD….I’M SO SORRY… MICHAAAAEEELLLL.”

Dean was already howling at the top of his voice, his tone so high-pitched that Gabriel was wincing in pain, even as the tender hatch sprang open. He ducked back out of the way, to allow Dean to barrel past him and jump down into the cargo hold of Hortlan’s ship.

Completely ignoring the fact that Hortlan was waving a highly illegal particle beam weapon in their direction, flanked on either side by two guys who - despite having the height and heft of goons looked extremely uncomfortable with the situation - Dean charged towards the tall, blond Dominant with his hands waving wildly in a parody of hysterical excitement.

“YOU FORGAVE ME…. OH… MICHAAAEL,” Dean squealed, as he ran towards the Dominant in a wavering, stumbling, trajectory that kept his body shifting ‘accidentally’ to ensure he was between the weapon and Gabriel, even as an obviously confused, red-faced Hortlan kept trying to adjust his stance to get the Qui in his line of sight.

The deck was lurching, as the ship’s engines squealed in the background. Presumably due to an attempt to turn the ship in a hard 180 to flee the oncoming Bentaegan Warship although, oddly, it sounded more like someone had thrown the yacht into a hard stop by accident, considering the grinding, shuddering groans of the ship.

Dean, who already looked like he was drunk or hysterical, was struggling to keep upright at all. The deck began tilting wildly as the ship reared and bucked under the centrifugal forces caused by the sudden polarity of the engine’s direction of thrust.

Hortlan fell to one knee, almost dropping his weapon, but the lower position allowed him to steady himself against the rocking of the ship and take more careful aim around the body of the running Mariposa.

Gabriel took that as his cue to start moving himself. He was scared enough by the promise of that deadly weapon to sound genuinely hysterical himself as he yelled the cheesy words Dean had coached him to shout.

“YOU’RE MINE, DEAN. I WILL KILL YOU BEFORE I LET HIM HAVE YOU.”

“SAVE MEEEEE,” Dean wailed, breaking his headlong dash to freeze in apparent terror in the space between Hortlan and the open hatch of the Tender, before starting to dance in place as though he was unsure of the direction in which he should flee, making it impossible for the Dom to fire at the ship without accidentally killing ‘his’ Mariposa.

“GET DOWN,” Hortlan yelled at Dean. “Stand still you idiot.”

“I’m SCARED!” Dean howled, now whirling around, wringing his hands desperately, charging back and forth like a petrified chicken, fluttering back and forth like a butterfly, appearing totally mindless with panic.

Gabriel used the distraction to slip out of the tender’s hatch, throw himself to the right and roll under the nose of the tiny craft until he was out of Hortlan’s sight. Not that it would do him much good to just hide there behind the tiny craft, he knew, if Hortlan decided to simply shoot the ship itself. The spread of the particle beam would probably take out anyone standing directly behind the tender too.

Realising Gabriel had gotten safely out of the hatch, Dean stopped his mindless side-to-side darting and returned to a full-on charge towards Hortlan.

But then the ship gave another violent shudder and the floor tilted several degrees, knocking him off his feet and tossing him to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs.

Hortlan visibly startled and then threw himself sideways and fired blindly towards the Tender.

The particle weapon shot harmlessly over the sprawled Mariposa and dissolved a Qui sized hole in the side of the tender, cutting straight through its forward thrusters. Fuel poured out of its severed guts, ignited in the oxygen-rich atmosphere of the hold and the tender immediately exploded.

The explosion created a momentary vacuum, sucking in most of the artificial atmosphere inside the cargo bay before sending it back out again in a hot rushing wave.

Gabriel had spread his wings and had lifted upwards to safety even before Hortlan pulled the trigger but, since he was hovering above the tender, the force of the explosion tossed him violently against the metal roof of the hold and he cried out as his right wing snapped and broke with the impact, sending him back downwards in an uncontrolled spin.

Hortlan, his face blackened, his blond hair soot-streaked and sweat-dampened, his torso peppered with cuts from flying shrapnel had somehow not dropped his weapon. With a wide, manic grin he raised it towards the falling Qui and took aim once more.

Dean, who had missed the worst of the explosion because he was already lying face down on the floor, picked himself up and begun running again, then threw himself the last few feet between them, swan-diving towards Hortlan in a motion that was oddly graceful. At least until he impacted the big Dominant with painful force.

The collision was a final assault on the desperate vertigo he’d been suffering since he’d first entered the tender. Even as Michael Hortlan used his right arm to try to untangle himself from Dean’s flailing limbs and raised his left hand to fire the weapon at Gabriel, Dean stopped fighting his nausea and let himself throw up all over his former Dom.

Hortlan, who had managed somehow to cling on to his weapon through every earlier shock and surprise, dropped it instinctively as he clawed at the vomit, spluttering and choking as he staggered backward in horror even as Dean’s guts continued to explode over the Dom’s hair and face.

His two crew, who had already refused to involve themselves in what was happening - having only accompanied Hortlan in an attempt to prevent actual violence, until he’d produced the unexpected weapon and put them in fear of their own lives too - backed away with grimaces of disgust, but not before one of them took a moment to drop kick the fallen weapon away into the furthest recess of the hold.

“Pilot Piotr Yakovlev, of the Earth yacht ‘Carpe Diem’, has just messaged us. It appears he has assumed command of the vessel. We are clear to approach. They are formally surrendering and inviting us to board,” the Comms Officer announced.

Castiel gestured impatiently. The surrender had been pretty much a given, considering the Carpe Diem was unarmed. “What about Hortlan?”

“Yakovlev has apparently placed Hortlan under arrest for an assault against a Novian citizen with an illegal weapon, reckless endangerment and attempted kidnap,” the Bentaegan mercenary admitted with a wince.

“DEAN,” Castiel yelled, his eyes blazing. 

Carolus winced too, as the smell of overheating wiring filled the bridge and several of the crew began to shuffle nervously. “He may be hurt, but he’s definitely alive, Son. It’s not even likely he’s badly hurt. Otherwise, the charges would include attempted murder. And, obviously, Hortlan’s crew have decided they want no part in whatever happened and have taken over to protect themselves from being charged as accessories. Shame though. I was rather looking forward to seeing you handle Hortlan yourself.”

Castiel was torn between feeling sick that his Subplex had been hurt, relief his Subplex was alive and regret it would be considered highly illegal to smite a prisoner, regardless of how much the bastard deserved to die, die, DIE.

Plus, he had charged to the ‘rescue’ only to have been rendered redundant after all. A tiny, fledgling hope that Dean might deviate from character long enough to throw himself into his arms in simpering gratitude was abruptly extinguished.

As though he could read his mind, his father said, “You don’t imagine this Yakovlev would have mutinied against his employer if he hadn’t been facing a fully armed Warbird, do you?”

Which was a valid point, even if it failed to satisfy Castiel’s Praevalen instinct to vaporize Hortlan with nothing more than the power of his mind.

Since both the Warbird and the Yacht were fitted with docking mechanisms, and the crew of the Carpe Diem were being fully co-operative, it was easy to perform the procedure to create a fixed airlock between both vessels. 

It still took an endless twenty-three minutes before the connecting dock was sealed and pressured to allow Castiel to simply stroll through to the waiting yacht, by which time he was feeling so stressed he worried he might actually be physically sick from nerves.

“Don’t you dare,” Gabriel said, as Castiel emerged from the airlock looking more green than blue. “We’ve had enough vomit around here already to last a lifetime.”

“Gabe?”

“The one and only. Though I had no idea it was you on that damned Warbird,” Gabriel said, remarkably cheerfully considering his right wing was dangling at an unnatural angle.

“You’re hurt.”

“Clean break I think, but I definitely won’t be flying for a while. Hopefully Nova has a decent medical facility.”

“Where’s Dean?”

“Sick bay.”

“How badly did Hortlan hurt him?” Castiel growled.

Gabriel blinked and frowned. “Dean? Hortlan never laid a hand on him. Piotr laid the charges on him for assaulting _me_.”

“But you said Dean’s in sickbay.”

“Oh, that. Well he’s got some bruised knuckles, sure, but the only reason he’s lying down right now is he gets spacesick. Particularly if he can see where he’s going, and this yacht has far too many viewports.”

“Explosively spacesick,” someone muttered from behind Gabriel.

“Meet Piotr Yakovlev. He’s the pilot. He and the Navigator, Chris Harding, are the guys that put Hortlan in the brig,” Gabriel explained.

“Not that we have a brig,” Piotr admitted, a little sheepishly “We actually just left him in the cargo hold after the Mariposa cold-cocked him, and we locked the doors. It’ll probably smell pretty ripe in there by the time we reach Nova but serves him right. Firing a particle beam weapon inside a pressurized spaceship? The crazy bastard could have killed us all.”

Castiel’s blood ran cold at the thought. If Hortlan’s weapon had hit one of the exterior bulkheads, the immediate explosive decompression would have definitely killed everyone who was in the hold at the time.

“They don’t actually have a sickbay either,” Gabriel admitted. “Just a standard basic First Aid kit. Which is why I’ll have to wait until we get to Nova to get my wing looked at.”

“Then where is Dean?”

“In Hortlan’s quarters. I just didn’t want to lead with that information until you knew for sure that Hortlan wasn’t in there with him. It made sense. Dean needed a shower and a decent bed to lie down on for a bit and, naturally, Hortlan’s quarters are the nicest on the ship.”

“Why did he need a shower?” Carolus asked, as he emerged through the dock port.

Piotr and Gabriel exchanged glances and snorted with amusement, then Gabriel proceeded to tell them how everything had gone down.

“Thing is,” he said, when he’d finished, “Dean was always planning to pretend he was running to escape me. He thought the scenario would distract Hortlan enough to allow him to get him close enough to punch the fucker’s lights out. He wasn’t expecting Hortlan to actually be waving a gun, since it’s the stupidest thing anyone can do inside a spaceship. Personally, I wasn’t surprised at all, except I didn’t expect it to be an actual particle beam weapon. I was expecting to be gutshot, not vaporized. Anyway, Dean had to zig and zag a bit, to stop Hortlan getting a bead on me and that, added to the earlier flight, and the fact this ship was bucking like an insane bronco at the time, turned a bit of mild nausea into a scene from a horror movie.”

“A particularly gruesome movie with an excess budget for bodily fluids,” Piotr agreed, with a wince. “Mr. Hortlan was so distracted by the fact he was practically drowning in vomit that he didn’t even see the fist coming. Never seen anyone hit someone so hard. That Mariposa makes the Interplanetary Heavyweight Champion look like an anorexic teenage girl in comparison. It was hard to tell under the mess, but I doubt that punch left a single intact tooth in Hortlan’s shattered jaw. The guy is going to wake up into a world of hurt.”

Castiel was completely speechless as he tried to visualize the scene. Carolus was just laughing so hard that a hernia looked a serious possibility.

Gabriel smirked smugly. “So, I’m guessing you left Tsaluna a few days ago, huh?”

“We set off as soon as we heard the rumor that Hortlan was planning to intercept you.”

“So, you never got the message, huh?”

“What message?”

“Don’t get over-excited. Dean hasn’t forgiven you, Cassie. But… and it’s a big but… he sent you a message a couple of days back that he wanted you to come to Nova and join us anyway. He says that now that ‘all your cards are on the table’, the pair of you can attempt being ‘friends’, at least, and then see where it goes.”

Castiel staggered and needed to grab hold of the bulkhead to stop his suddenly weak knees giving way. “He really wants me to come to Nova?”

“He does,” Gabriel agreed. “And having seen what he did to the last Dom who pissed him off, I suggest you do as you’re told from now on.”

“So, this is one hell of a shit show, huh?”

Dean shifted nervously under the older man’s scowl. “I apologize for the inconvenience…” he began.

“Oh stow it. I’m just blowin’ smoke up your ass, boy. I reckon ain’t no-one ends up on a remote colony world like this if they don’t have a closet full of skeletons. Just ain’t usual for them to bring ‘em along for the ride. Gotta ask, you got any more psychotic exes liable to turn up around here?”

Dean flushed hotly, but shook his head. “Just Hortlan.”

“Hmmmphh,” the Mayor of the mining colony snorted. “Actually, I was kinda including that Cas-tee-ell guy in the psycho category too. Ya know, with all the burny thing he’s got going on. I swear, he’s like a walking tinder box and that Hortlan asshole is gonna be the spark. I keep expecting to be told the whole infirmary just went up in flames just from the power of his glare.”

“Cas isn’t dangerous,” Dean argued. “Just a bit...um…”

“Smitey?” the mayor suggested.

“Um, yeah.”

“Course, if you got off your ass and talked to the guy, it might help. But shit, that ain’t my business. You two want to dance around each other like a pair of prima donna princesses, that’s up to you. Me, though, I gotta find a way to handle the Hortlan situation without ending up declaring war on the Federal Alliance. Shame you didn’t just chuck the asshole out of an airlock whilst you had the opportunity. Way it stands, we not only need to patch his jaw back together but we’re gonna have to build a damned jail to throw him in after. Would have been easier to just ‘lose’ him in space.”

“I suggested it,” Dean grumbled.

“I just bet ya did,” the Mayor snorted. “Heard from Charlie you make a habit of punching guys’ lights out. Always thought you Mariposa-types got trained in the art of fine conversation rather than boxing.”

Dean shrugged. “The definition of successful conversation is a swift meeting of minds. Sometimes I find my fist speaks with artful succinctness.”

“I just bet ya do. Still, ain’t no assholes round here. I don’t tolerate it. Anyone buys a claim and turns out to be a troublemaker, I have a third-strike and you’re out rule here. Though with guys like Hortlan, I don’t give even second chances.”

Dean’s blood ran cold. “I… I didn’t realize I could just get thrown off-planet at your whim.”

The Mayor blinked at him slowly. “What the fuck you smokin’ ya dammed idjit? I ain’t warnin’ you to behave. I’m tryin’ to let ya know I ain’t gonna tolerate anyone givin’ ya a hard time here. Anyone gives you shit, boy, feel free to handle ‘em however ya see fit. Just lettin’ ya know, I see a repeatin’ pattern on anyone’s jaw, I’m gonna just dump their ass outta here altogether. Better we sort the assholes out fast anyway. I might just consider you the yardstick for judging newcomers.”

“You want me to act as your asshole-detector?” Dean snorted.

“Boy, you wanna walk around like a livin’, breathin’ invitation to sin, don’t blame me for usin’ ya to sniff out the sinners,” the Mayor chuckled. “Seriously, Dean. Appears you can handle yourself. Not everyone can. I got some biological subs here been so beaten down they can barely lift their eyes to look folks in the face. Nova Sergiev is a good world. A safe world. I want it to stay that way. You ain’t the first ‘claim holder’ got sponsored to come here for free, and you ain’t gonna be the last. ‘Course, we can’t exactly print that on our literature, can we?”

Dean bit his lip, then gave in to his laughter. “Nope, I think it would be pretty counterproductive. Offering free settlement to subs would just make you look like a bunch of slavers or pimps, out to deliberately exploit us.”

“Exactly, though it ain’t just subs. Take your pretty friend Meg. I wish we could afford to bring a whole bunch of Delts here out of those goddamned hell camps. Who knows? One day maybe, if we can ever work out a way to extract enough ore, we’ll be able to afford to do it.”

Dean looked at the mayor in surprise. The rough-edged guy seemed completely serious. “Look, Mayor Singer, I think…”

“I told ya to call me Bobby,” the mayor grunted. “Ain’t no standin’ on ceremony ‘round here.”

“Bobby, I think I have some ideas about the extraction problem. I... um… don’t do well in space. So to distract myself, I spent a lot of the journey here looking at Doratea’s data regarding the elemental breakdown of the minerals and the schematics of the horizontal mine shafts and, um, I think you’re… well… going about it all wrong.”

Bobby frowned repressively. “The Faelar have been on-world for twenty-two years, wrestling with this shit, boy. Ain’t no way to work vertically without the crystals moving to seal the shafts. Don’t matter how careful we are when we find routes downwards between the crystal structures. The minute we disturb the crust, the crystals pick up on the workings, seem to see the intrusion as a wound and flow to seal it. Only thing we can do is drill down from a couple of miles away, to well below the surface, then work sidewards until we get to the deposits, then extract as much as we can before the vibrations disturb the surface crystals enough for them to flow downwards and seal the tunnels off. Little buggers can close down a tunnel overnight. Six months to dig the damned thing and we get maybe two weeks production out of it before it’s a dead duck and we have to start again. But cutting through live crystal is out of the question. The Faelar wouldn’t stand for that, anyway.”

“I get that,” Dean agreed. “The crystals are alive and Nova is their world. I’m not arguing against respecting them as indigenous life forms, Bobby. I’m saying there’s a flaw in the supposition the crystals are deliberately protecting the ‘graves’ of their ancestors.”

“The minerals are only found directly underneath the live crystal colonies. Layer upon layer of sediment. The crystals die and get compressed under the weight of a new layer of live crystal. So, effectively, the Faelar claim the deposits are the ‘bodies’ of dead crystals and we’re all just a bunch of dirty grave-robbers,” Bobby argued. “Sure, we‘be got no choice. The colony can’t survive without some income but it’s why despite the vast wealth of the planet, we Novians are struggling to survive here at all.”

Dean shook his head. “I know I’m just a newbie here, and I’m not saying I’m smarter than a whole bunch of Faelar but… well, wrong is wrong, Bobby. I think they’ve sold themselves, and you new settlers, a pup. For one thing, the numbers don’t add up. The lithosphere here is almost fifty miles deep, yet it is almost solidly formed of compacted crystaline deposits directly below the live crystal fields. The deposits are so compact that they’ve actually forced the rock plates aside, which is why you’re having to drill sideways through compacted granite to reach them.”

“And, so? Tell me something I don’t know,” Bobby said, rolling his eyes.

“The decay rate of the crystals is too slow to support the idea the deposits are the remains of ‘dead’ crystals,” Dean stated firmly. “There’s too much ore to support that hypothesis. The world simply isn’t old enough for the Faelar’s theory to be correct. I’m not saying the crystals aren’t sentient, but the Faelar are still guilty of anthropomorphism. They saw what the crystals did to prevent the mining operations and came up with some bullshit interpretation of the reason, based on their own horror of the idea of grave-disturbance. This whole crap is based on Faelar religious shit not scientific fact.”

Bobby frowned. “So, if the deposits aren’t ‘graves’, what the fuck are you suggesting they are?”

“Honestly? Given the extent and density of the buildup… I think it’s just crystal-shit. In which case, the idea the crystals are actively trying to prevent it getting extracted is pretty damned unlikely. I think it’s all about vibrations. Frequencies. The crystals probably aren’t sapient. At least not to the extent they are deliberately choosing to scupper your attempts to mine out of some spiteful desire to prevent extraction of the ore. I can’t see why they would even care. I’m not even sure they are interpreting the current Horizontal mining as a threat of attack on themselves, since you’re working so far below them. I think… well… you’re just kind of giving the poor bastards a headache. I think the answer is finding a way to mine on a frequency that doesn’t upset the crystals. Or somehow maybe even encouraging the crystal fields to move away from their current positions altogether. They can somehow move, right? So maybe they can be convinced to shift to new locations where they can take a dump in peace.”

Instead of answering him, Bobby pressed a button on his Vidcom and yelled, “Kevin, Garth, get your skinny asses in here.” Then he turned his attention to Dean again. “I was born at night, not last night,” he rumbled. “You ain’t the first person to look at that data and draw the same conclusion. Problem is political, kinda. The Faelar, bless their sweet little socks, are idealistic little buggers and a bit set in their ways. When Kevin put forward the same idea a couple of years back, the Faelar took it as an assault on their own religious beliefs. So the human settlers backed down a bit, decided to work around the problem with the deep sideways shafts instead of forcing a confrontation. We figured the Faelar would eventually come around. Well, if we could figure out a way to prove our theory to them. They ain’t stupid folks.

“Sides, upset the Crystals enough and the planet isn’t even habitable by carbon lifeforms. It’s the only reason no-one fought the Faelar over ownership. Nova Town itself is built over the site of a _genuine_ crystal graveyard. You can see the evidence in the miles of shattered crystal that surround the township. We’re building on a small area that got nuked flat maybe fifty years before the Faelar bought the planet. Now that would be disrespectful, I guess, except we’re doing it to ensure none of our foundations affect live crystal. The fact the Crystal doesn’t seem to care about us building here on a site strewn with crystal shards is pretty strong evidence they don’t have any ‘feelings’ about honoring their dead. The original miners cleared this area because they planned to just blast their way down to the wealth below. Be more surprising if someone hadn’t tried it that way since Nova potentially holds enough valuable ore to become richer than the entire Alliance combined.”

“What happened?”

“The crystals fled in the wake of the first explosion. They might look solid, but you’re right about them being able to move. They have the ability to flow like water. When the bomb went off, the rest of the Crystals simply sank down into the crust. Sapient or not, they are obviously sentient enough to display self-preservation. Course, without them to absorb and radiate stored sunlight, this side of the planet plummeted in temperature immediately. In a single night, it transformed into a sub-zero tundra. The original miners were frozen so solid that they couldn’t get chipped out of their ice tombs and buried for nearly ten years. The planet was deserted then for several decades. The crystals gradually returned to the surface and then the Faelar moved in. So far, we haven’t done anything to risk threatening them again. We’re obviously gettin’ on their nerves but they ain’t reacting like they’re scared of us. Though, gotta admit, we all cack our pants the night after each mineshaft gets shut down, wonderin’ if this is the straw that will break the camel’s back and we’ll all wake up as popsicles.”

“That’s why you need more actual scientists here,” Dean said.

“Yeah,” a young fresh-faced man said, entering the room with a tall blond at his side. “I’m Kevin, this is Garth. We’re trying to unravel this thing. What we really need is a neurophysiologist. Someone who can figure out the specific resonances the Crystals respond to. But since they’re silicon-based not carbon-based, god only knows how their brains work. If they even have brains.”

Bobby said, “Kevin here is sure the answer isn’t one of audiological response since the crystals don’t ‘hear’. It’s more likely they are responding in the same way that pheromones resonate to biologicals. Take how Hortlan knew you were on that tender, Dean. How did he know? Pheromones have no smell. Sound can’t travel through a vacuum. So either we buy some mystical mumbo-jumbo bullshit about biologicals having some kind of ‘spiritual’ connection to their bond mates or the answer is in resonances.”

“You’re drawing a correlation between the way the crystals behave and how biologicals react to pheromones?”

“It’s why Kev nearly pissed his pants with excitement when he heard you were Mariposa,” the blond guy blurted.

“How many times do I have to tell you that word is rude,” Kevin snapped. “Dean is a Subplex. Calling him a ‘Mariposa’ is a slur. It’s buying into the Federation’s obscene discriminatory bias against an entire designation.”

“Sorry man,” the blond, Garth, mumbled, looking at Dean with sad eyes like an apologetic puppy.

“It’s just a word,” Dean shrugged. 

“Yeah, but words can hurt,” Kevin argued, still glaring at the hapless Garth. “We don’t hurt people on Nova.”

“Except Hortlan,” Garth pointed out. “Lots of folk here want to hurt him.”

“Can you idjits stick to the point?” Bobby grumbled. 

“Well, Dean being Subplex kinda _is_ the point,” Garth said. “Though we never thought we’d get a full-blown Praevalen too. That was a 2 for 1 package deal we weren’t expecting. It’s so cool.”

Dean stiffened. “What the fuck?”

Bobby sighed and rolled his eyes at Garth. “I just finished tellin’ Dean he was allowed to punch anyone he liked. Try not to be the first one he gets tempted to test the theory on.” As Garth flinched away, looking alarmed, Bobby turned his attention fully on Dean. “Despite the way that sounded, we ain’t looking to use you as some kind of guinea pig. But there’s no arguing the fact that if a ‘normal’ biological sub/dom connection resonates at a similar frequency as that of the Novian crystals, an actual sub/Prae bond might be even more effective.”

“You’ve lost me. How the hell do you know the resonance is similar at all?”

“Because there’s a reason the Faelar and Molgaten invited human settlers to Nova and it isn’t just our physical strength,” Kevin explained. “Although we have a healthy mix of designations and nulls here, only biologicals do the actual mining. Send a null down the shafts and the Crystals react immediately. Instead of getting a couple of weeks worth of extractions, we barely manage an hour. Send down biologicals we get a couple of weeks. Send a team formed of bonded biologicals, and we can sometimes mine for nearly a month before being shut down. So our theory is that the crystals don’t see biologicals as threats in the same way as they see nulls. Or, to use your analogy, biologicals don’t give ‘em a headache.”

“And since Subplex and Prae are the ultimate expression of biological synergy, it stands to reason you will be even more welcome to the crystals,” Garth said, with grinning cheerfulness. “You coming here might have solved all of our problems.”

“Garth,” Bobby snapped repressively.

But it was too late. Dean surged to his feet. He felt sick, lightheaded, reeling with what he’d heard, feeling like he’d been kicked in the guts.

“You’re just like everyone else,” he spat bitterly. “You fuckers are just like every other bastard who’s ever looked at me and just seen me as a _thing_ , as a commodity to use.”

“Dean, it’s not like that. We aren’t trying to ‘use’ you. Acknowledging you have a particular talent is no different than us saying we need your knowledge as a Xenobiotic tech and your skills as an engineer. Both of which are true. This is just an extra tool in your toolbox. No more, no less,” Bobby assured him. “You would be welcome here whatever your designation but it just so happens you’ve got something extra to offer, maybe.”

“Yeah, you tell yourself that,” Dean snarled. “A tool in my toolbox? Is that how I should consider my apparently irresistible ass too? Because this isn’t you asking for an acquired skill. This isn’t you asking to hire me. Using me for my pheromones is just treating me like a thing. Like my only value to you is my designation. How the fuck is that different from every other bastard in my life who has never seen me as anything more than a Mariposa? So screw you. Screw all of you.”

He was so furious, so hurt, so scared, that he could barely see as he shoved past Garth and Kevin and stumbled out of the door, his eyes hot with angry tears. He ignored the voices of alarmed apology that called after him as he ran from the Mayor’s house into the dusty street of the main settlement. Past the bar and the infirmary and the scattered stores on the Main Street, past the houses that crowded at the edge of town, past the outlying settlements and out into the night.

He ran blindly, in no particular direction, because there was nowhere he could go.

No way off the planet.

No way out of the reality of his life.

He was Mariposa.

That was all he was.

That was all he ever would be.

No one would ever look at him and just see Dean.

He was just a thing, an object to be used, and there was no escape from that reality.

Nova Sergiev wasn’t a new start.

It was just a different kind of prison.

So he ran, and ran, until his heart was burning in his chest like it might simply explode with pain and effort and a grief so consuming he felt it might consume him like a ravenous flame. He ran until Nova Town was far behind him and his shoes and pants were shredded by crystal shards and blood was running in rivulets from deep scratches on his flesh; until the pain in his calves and ankles was almost greater than the ache of his lungs.

And still, stumbling, tripping, scrambling for purchase with hands soon lacerated by murdered crystal, he ran on into the dark cold night of an alien landscape.

Lying in an infirmary bed, his jaw bone repaired but his entire lower face swollen and throbbing, his right cheek sunken over his missing teeth, his veins flooded with sedative painkillers - though a considerably lower dose than another person with similar injuries might have been afforded - his arms firmly shackled to the cot rails by strong leather straps, Michael Hortlan had no view of the street outside. He didn’t even know where he was for sure, although Nova seemed a good probability, because not one of the medics who had treated him had exchanged a single word with him as they had obviously reluctantly tended his injuries before deserting him to suffer alone.

There was no way, then, that he could have known Dean Campbell had just run past the building he was lying in.

Except that he somehow did.

The moment Dean passed the infirmary, Hortlan’s eyes snapped open and his whole body tried to surge upwards against the restraints that held him.

His Mariposa, _his_ Mariposa, was outside.

And the thin thread of sanity he had barely clung onto since Dean’s rejection eighteen months earlier, snapped completely as he vividly recalled the moment in the cargo hold when Dean had rejected him _again_.

Twice now his Mariposa had struck him, had rejected him, had judged him an unworthy Dominant.

Another biological Dom, faced with that knowledge, might simply have drowned in the horror of that reality, allowed the chemical effects of that depression to steal their ability to even take another breath.

Twice.

Rejected _twice_.

Judged unworthy.

Twice.

But for Michael Hortlan the idea was unacceptable. It was anathema. The fault was not with him. It could not be with him. He refused to accept he was anything except a perfect Dom. Which meant the only one unworthy had to be his submissive.

How dare Dean reject him?

This was Dean’s fault. Everything was Dean’s fault. He should have known from the moment Dean fell into his lap that the Mariposa was a honey-trap. The improbable, impossible idea that Dean’s titleholder had never collected him from the Academy now made a terrible sense.

The Mariposa was… was poison.

Flawed.

It was _Dean_ who was unworthy.

Oh he was beautiful. He was irresistibly beautiful. He had the kind of beauty that forced anyone who saw him to covet it. Possess it. Own it.

But it was a sparkling, shining beauty that masked an insidious poison.

The Qui bastard, Castiel N’Vak, had somehow known the venom his Mariposa carried, so had deliberately left the little bastard to lure the unsuspecting Hortlan into his web instead.

Dean wasn’t a Mariposa at all.

He was a black widow, a vicious venomous spider who had deliberately set out to destroy Hortlan. To bewitch him only to humiliate him. To break him. To addict him only in order to destroy him by withdrawing that which Hortlan now craved.

And there was only one way to survive the pulsing, thundering pain in his chest, the knifing ache that stabbed him deeper and deeper as, yet again, the frayed bond between them was stretched ever thinner by Dean’s flight.

Hortlan needed to break these restraints, chase after him, capture him, and then snap Dean’s evil, treacherous neck. 

It was suddenly crystal clear.

The only way to escape from Dean’s wicked spell was to kill the fake Mariposa. It was the only way Hortlan would free himself from the poisonous addiction. The only way he himself would survive going ‘cold turkey’ a second time would be the knowledge that his tormentor was dead.

And with that decision, as his fury transformed into fixed purpose, the straining leather binding him finally snapped, and Hortlan rose to his feet, slipped out of the deserted building and set off in pursuit.

“You look better than I’d expected,” Carolus said, frowning at his son thoughtfully as they all gathered in the temporary boarding accommodation provided for new settlers and rare visitors. “I worried you’d start to decline again rapidly as soon as Dean was out of danger, but just being on the same planet as him seems to be preventing you from sinking back into depression. You still seem vibrantly alive to me.”

“I believe it is the knowledge he sent me the message that’s helping most of all,” Castiel suggested, unconsciously rubbing his forehead fretfully. “Despite everything, just the knowledge he doesn’t actively hate me appears to offer me more comfort than I had expected. I believe I can learn to be satisfied with that. I _have_ to be satisfied with that. I fully accept the terms he has set. His wariness is understandable and I am willing to allow him to determine the pace and level of our future interactions. The generosity of his suggestion that we might attempt to become friends will be sufficient to prevent the bond between us severing completely. Which is in accord with my research regarding the viability of platonic bonds.”

“How can you sound so reasonable when you actually look like you are half-a-second away from burning the whole world down?” Gabriel asked. “You look less ‘vibrant’ to me than incandescent.”

“You are definitely still doing that blue angry glowy thing,” Meg agreed. “In fact, is it just me or is Castiel getting bluer even as we speak?”

“Perhaps it is a combination of Dean’s proximity, my returning pheromones now I have ceased using the blockers or the knowledge Hortlan is nearby,” Castiel admitted. “I admit my hormonal balance appears unfortunately precarious but my issue is only tangentially connected to Dean,” Castiel admitted, as his head began to throb with an imminent headache.

“I do rather regret talking you out of smiting the bastard,” Carolus admitted. “Would have been hard to prove as long as you’d burned out the security cameras too.”

“A lack of a body does tend to scupper successful prosecutions,” Gabriel agreed regretfully. “We should have just done it. I honestly don’t think Hortlan’s crew would have objected.”

“I didn’t consider myself a violent or vengeful person, but the idea he will continue to exist despite his transgressions against Dean literally hurts me,” Castiel admitted heavily. “I am not a beast, to allow myself to be driven by my instincts, but every bone in my body seems to believe his continued existence is an ongoing threat. Perhaps my Praevalen nature will subside once Hortlan leaves the planet.”

He regretted mentioning the name as soon as he did so. His aching head was joined instantly by a thrumming pulse throughout his whole body. A demand he should race to Dean’s side and protect, protect, protect. He pushed the feelings down impatiently. Dean was fine. Dean was safe. Castiel knew this urgent, painful call was just his body trying to trick him into charging to Dean’s side.

Nova Town was a small settlement with only one ‘boarding house’ for visitors and new settlers. Putting Dean and Castiel together under one roof hadn’t seemed viable under the circumstances. They hadn’t even traveled together to the planet. Dean had remained on board the Carpe Diem, with Gabriel and Carolus staying to ensure his safety, and had arrived at Nova first. By the time Castiel had arrived on the Bentaegen Warbird, the Carpe Diem was orbiting the planet uncertain whether they should wait to be Federal witnesses or whether they were free to return to Earth, Gabriel’s broken wing had been healed, Hortlan had been ‘imprisoned’ in Nova’s infirmary and Dean had been offered a spare room by one of the settlers who lived on the other side of town from the boarding house.

Castiel hadn’t even seen him yet and he’d given his solemn word he wouldn’t attempt to locate him. Just knowing he was safe, and nearby, and didn’t _hate_ him was enough. Despite the throbbing ache of his instincts that it damned well wasn’t enough at all.

“I’m not sure Bobby wants to summon the Federal Peacekeepers to take Hortlan away,” Dor sighed. “He’s worried they won’t see his actions to have been as unforgivable as we do. The Feds are unlikely to take the attempted kidnap of Dean seriously and because Gabriel was only injured indirectly, rather than actually shot, and Hortlan can claim the excuse of out of control Dom pheromones as his reason for the ‘reckless endangerment’, a good lawyer could get him off the charges with little more than a fine.”

“Most everyone here wants Bobby to just lock him up and throw away the key,” Charlie agreed. “But we don’t even have a drunk tank, let alone a jail. Plus I don’t think either you or Dean will like the idea of him staying on-planet indefinitely.”

Castiel groaned aloud as something seemed to slam into his head like a fist, a sharp, knifing pain that sent his senses haywire, as the pulse abruptly changed from a thrum of protect, protect, protect into a screaming demand that he needed to fly, fly, FLY.

It was the same crazed urge he’d felt the night he’d pursued Dean and D’Viim from Infernum. The same intense compulsion to abandon his reasoning brain and simply allow his wings to guide his path. The same instinctive knowledge that he could simply launch into the air and unerringly locate the Subplex.

He had to fight it. Had to resist the urge to race out of the door and fly directly to Dean’s side.

He was not a slave to his instincts. 

He had promised. PROMISED. The price of being allowed to alight on Nova had been his solemn vow he would never directly approach Dean unless specifically invited. That all interaction between them would be at Dean’s behest. Under Dean’s control.

It was such a tiny thing for the Subplex to demand. At twelve years old, Dean had been sold, had become nothing more than helpless flotsam on an ocean of other men’s desires. That he should demand control now was not only fair, it was right, and Castiel was more than willing to agree to it.

Less than fifteen hours since setting foot on Nova, he wasn’t going to allow his own greedy pheromones to trick him into breaking his word. He shouldn’t have stopped taking the blockers. He realized that now. Without them, Dean wasn’t safe because Castiel clearly wasn’t able to control himself after all.

Or perhaps not, because that was the moment someone hammered on the front door of the boarding house with the news that both Dean and Hortlan had gone missing.

So, maybe Castiel’s senses weren’t tricking him after all.

Maybe the warning they were screaming, that Dean was in grave danger, was true after all.

Because Nova Sergiev, despite its atmosphere, was effectively a moon itself, caught in the rotation of a larger planet, it had no moons of its own. And because the settlement of Nova Town was on the ‘dark side’ of that larger planet, night-time on Nova was not only almost eighteen hours in length (with a whole calendar day being a full 44 hours, which was going to take some adjusting to) but was darker and colder than anything Dean had experienced before.

At night time, Nova’s mother planet eclipsed the yellow dwarf star that was their ‘sun’ and left Nova in total, frigid darkness. Only the radiant warmth stored in the planet’s crust allowed life there at all. If not for the crystals that absorbed so much daylight, only to then slowly release it through the night to create a natural ‘storage heater’ effect, within a couple of hours of nightfall any being of mere flesh and bones would have been subject to temperatures plummeting well into sub-zero.

On the other side of Nova it was permanent twilight, the land's surface bathed permanently in the reflected glow from the mother planet. That side of Nova had neither night nor day. No vegetation, no crystals. Life on Nova was limited to the side of the ‘moon’ that faced outward from its mother planet and gained the kiss of its sun for 26 hours a day, though that life would have perished without the crystalline lifeforms’ natural ability to absorb and radiate heat.

As the original settlers had discovered to their cost.

So perhaps the Faelar’s insistence on protecting the crystals wasn’t purely motivated by ecological concerns, Dean thought, as his mindless flight into the dark drew him inexorably towards one of the vast living crystal fields. He hadn’t known the direction he was heading. He hadn’t deliberately chosen to run towards the living crystals. His stumbling path through the littered detritus of long-dead shattered crystal corpses, those shards that had bitten him so savagely as he ran, had been guided more by his instinctive desire to follow the faint, warm glow on the horizon that he had first assumed was the last effects of the setting sun only to realize, as he got closer, was a radiant effect that became brighter and warmer the longer Nova was plunged into darkness.

Dean was still shivering, his lungs already burning so much he could taste coppery blood in his mouth and now further assaulted by the bite of uncomfortably chill air, but as he approached the crystal field the worst of his goosebumped flesh eased a little and he could feel a significant warmth radiating from the vast, monolithic beings. A welcoming warmth that drew him as surely as the offer of a comforting hug.

Dean’s mind was flooded with a long-forgotten memory as he approached the crystals, ghostly figures towering with faint silvery luminescence despite the total darkness surrounding them. It was Superman’s Fortress of Solitude. Vast, unbearably beautiful, a structure seemingly formed of stalagmites that had the appearance of ice and yet radiated the warmth of a spring day.

It was a stunning totally alien vista, completely unlike the vid he had seen of the crystals in the Novian database. Why had no-one ever captured this sight on camera? In daylight the crystal field looked like a bizarre Stonehenge, the crystals opaque, filled with flaws and clouded with impurities, dull, milky objects that visually defied the Faelar insistence that these monoliths were living, reasoning beings.

But at night, lit from within by a glow that offered the iridescent sheen of Mother of Pearl, the crystals were awe-inspiring. And they hummed. 

It wasn’t a sound. It wasn’t a song heard by his ears, but a low, pulsing rhythm that thrummed through his veins. One that caused his thudding heart to slow and steady into the song of the structure before him. He blinked uncertainly as his flesh, its artificial faded gold a dull dark grey in the night, began to glow with the same ghostly silver as the monoliths.

He thought he should be scared by it. By this resonance. By this proof Bobby and Kevin and Garth had been right. Instead, a voice in the back of his head wryly pointed out that this was probably the reason Cas had tricked him into dyeing himself a molten gold. And, though he was still pissed about the deception on the whole, he felt a slight amount of empathy at the thought Cas had woken up to see this weird effect playing over Dean’s skin. No wonder the poor bastard had panicked.

No wonder the Novians wanted to use him.

Somehow he _did_ resonate on exactly the same wavelength as the Novian crystals.

And although he still felt hurt and angry, he wondered if he had overreacted.

Oh, hell, he _knew_ he’d overreacted. Bobby had just finished telling him he was okay to walk around the settlement punching whomever he liked and the Mayor would simply accept Dean’s actions as proof the other guy was an asshole who deserved it. And the Novians wanting to take advantage of Dean’s designation in this way was, maybe, no different to someone being employed because they were a natural-born athlete or had a great singing voice. Tons of people made a living out of selling advantages they were born with, rather than just abilities they had acquired.

So the Novians hadn’t done anything wrong. They hadn’t meant to make him feel bad. Maybe you actually had to live as a Mariposa to understand why Dean had reacted the way he had. It was probably a form of PTSD. It was probably something he would never completely recover from. He would probably spend the entirety of his life finding threats where they didn’t exist, suffering the pain of slights not meant and fearing that every smile of a stranger hid contempt.

And perhaps it was the calm, soothing resonance of the crystals, the way the alien humming throbbed through his veins with such bizarre familiarity, that he relaxed enough to accept that his interactions with Castiel had also always been done in the malignant shadow of Dean’s own prior experiences.

The poor bastard could never have done right for doing wrong. If Castiel had been honest from the beginning, Dean would have run. He would have done the same thing that night in the Alley as he had done this night on Nova. He would have blindly refused assistance for his shattered shoulder, would have run from Cas, from Alastair, from Crowley, and would, inevitably, have ended up picked up by the Tsalun City Guards and thrown into an internment camp.

Cas had never _wished_ to deceive him. He had simply understood that Dean _needed_ to be deceived.

Did that make it okay?

Was that a question he was asking himself or the inquiry of the silent gigantic crystals that thrummed through his head, through his veins, with a vibration that felt peculiarly like home.

Dean didn’t know. 

He had a horrible feeling he would still occasionally throw the dishonesty in Cas’s face, would still react to what had gone before - and any further perceived injustices - with explosions of unreasonable, self-protective anger even if that anger was ultimately more destructive than the perceived threat.

He was, basically, a bit fucked up.

And, though he regretted that truth, he wasn’t going to apologize for it. 

He had good reason.

No promises, no good experiences, no ‘Cas’, were going to simply erase the last thirteen years. What he had experienced, what he had somehow managed to avoid even, wasn’t going to just disappear and be forgotten.

It would take years to smooth the sharp edges of his memories and decades to blunt them completely. That, sadly, was simple fact.

But maybe he didn’t have to let the bitterness _own_ him.

Maybe he could turn around and return to town. Tell Bobby he would consider the idea. Tell Castiel he would consider their relationship. Finally stop running from any possibility of good in the assumption it was always just the sheep’s clothing hiding a slavering wolf. Trust was hard. Trust would always be hard. But, perhaps, the one thing possible to trust in was the knowledge that what hurt him would also hurt Cas.

The sensitive, gentle Praevalen was defenseless against Dean’s pain. His lies, his deceits, had not only been kindness, but they had also been self-preservation, hadn’t they? Cas had tried to shelter Dean from the truth because he had linked his life to Dean’s.

There was power in that. And responsibility. And, perhaps, safety.

Something he could believe in.

Trust in.

“I’m not a Mariposa,” he told the Fortress of Solitude. “I’m a Subplex. And I don’t know what that _means_ yet. But I know an entire Allied Federation of Planets has conspired for millennia to prevent me claiming my birthright. So it has to be important. Being a Subplex has to be a good thing. A powerful thing. And maybe, somehow, though I don’t believe in gods or fate or any of that shit, the fact I found Cas and we both somehow chose this planet to come to, a planet full of weird crystal guys who somehow ‘speak’ only our wavelength has to mean something.”

And the crystals hummed a silent agreement.

Wings even blacker than the Novian night, Castiel soared towards a silver glow on the horizon that sang to him like a chorus. A symphony of silent voices praying, urging, beseeching.

A wordless song, yet his body thrummed with words regardless.

Hurry, hurry, hurry. 

and

Fly, fly, fly.

and, somehow,

Home.

And, clearly, in the midst of the silent roar, a single pure note ringing out into the darkness:

COME.

Dean sensed him before he heard him. 

Turned even before the sound of crystal shards splintering underfoot and labored breathing preceded his crashing progress through the wasteland between Nova Town and the wall of living crystal.

Wild-eyed, red-faced, charging with the mindless fury of a wounded buffalo, Michael Hortlan, whom he had once loved, pierced the soft hum of the crystals with the sour notes of his malignant hate.

It hit Dean like a wall long seconds before Michael’s furious features were visible in the silvery luminescent haze cast by the crystal field.

Twice he had felled this huge man with a single punch, but Dean didn’t fool himself he would do so a third time. There would be no opportunity to strike the incensed dominant unawares this time. Perhaps Michael was only human, was not even as fractionally strong as the Qui that Dean had been regularly felling in Infernum, but Michael had murder in his eyes and the strength of madness in his limbs.

This was going to hurt, whichever one of them was ultimately victorious.

Dean had a horrible, sinking feeling the victor wouldn’t be himself.

But he didn’t flinch, refused to even allow a trickle of fear to distract him.

Perhaps this was it. He would die on a cold alien planet at the hands of this insane Dominant. But he would die proud and free and…

And Cas would die too.

The thought hit him with more power, more pain, than Michael’s fists could ever manage.

If he died, Cas would die.

They were bonded.

Cas would die.

His Praevalen would die.

And it was only as that knowledge snapped into his mind that he knew that his decision had already been made. 

He belonged to Cas. Cas belonged to him.

And he was fucked if Michael Fucking Hortlan was going to harm either of them.

“WHY WON’T YOU JUST DIE ALREADY, YOU FUCKER!” he screamed.

As death swooped down from the sky like a scything blade of black-tinged blue.

As a blast of resonance burst out sideways from the crystal fortress, displacing the air like a wave.

As crystal powered up from the ground beneath Hortlan’s feet, enveloping him instantly in a solid tomb of milky-hued ice.

As light erupted from the fortress of crystal, glaring upwards and piercing the darkness like a flame, a blaze of light that broke into arcing colors that rippled like a celebratory aurora borealis through the night sky.

“That’s twice I’ve raced to your rescue only to arrive too late,” Castiel grumbled.

“I don’t think so,” Dean chuckled, leaning so his back was warmed by Castiel’s chest, just as his own chest was protected by the heat of the arms wrapped around him. “I think it was the fact you were so close at the moment our bond snapped back together that caused the crystals to react as they did. I think sensing the rightness of our bond, made it perfectly clear to them that Hortlan’s resonance with me was wrong. Or maybe Hortlan was just giving them a headache,” he snickered.

“If you had delayed even a second more in your decision, I probably would have splattered myself anyway,” Cas admitted sheepishly. “I was swooping down so fast I would have probably broken every bone in my body when I hit him.”

“As much as the idea of you squishing him like a bug would have been messily satisfying, I’m glad you didn’t get hurt doing it. Thank god you didn’t hit the crystal that swallowed him or _you_ would have been the splattered bug,” Dean sighed. Then stiffened in confusion. “Why didn’t you hit the crystal?”

Cas shrugged at the silent, motionless monoliths. “Those ‘guys’ threw me sideways. Hard enough to knock me off course, but carefully enough that I didn’t get hurt. I think that proves some level of sapience after all.”

“Woah, awesome. Kinda spooky though, isn’t it?”

“Not as ‘spooky’ as that,” Castiel said, with a nod towards the semi-opaque crystal tomb that would presumably preserve Hortlan’s horrified expression forever.

“Maybe Bobby should stick it outside the hut they use as an immigration office as a kind of warning statue for any unsavory visitors,” Dean suggested. He was surprised to feel nothing but a cool indifference to Hortlan’s fate. Perhaps if the Dom had suffered, he would feel pity. As it was, all he felt was a relief the threat to himself, to Cas, was gone.

Standing here, in the calming hum of the crystals, wrapped in the protective arms of his Praevalen, he honestly couldn’t remember why he had ever imagined it might be a good idea to leave Cas behind.

“It certainly appears that the native Novians are prepared to protect themselves and _certain_ settlers from harm.”

“You think they would do the same for any Mariposa?” Dean asked thoughtfully.

“I think they specifically reacted to you because you are a true Subplex. I imagine a normal Mariposa would sound slightly ‘off’ to them. The question, I suppose, is how the crystals would react to that wrongness.”

“Kevin said all the biologicals here resonate on frequencies that the crystals barely object to and Bobby said a lot of the subs here had suffered difficult pasts, so you’d imagine their resonances are ‘off’ too. Maybe the crystals are smart enough to identify those types of bad resonances as merely a kind of illness that can be cured as opposed to Hortlan’s wrongness that needed to be erased.”

Castiel hummed thoughtfully, unconsciously echoing the resonance of the crystals and causing them to thrum in response. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“Am I imagining this place as a sanctuary for any designation of oppressed biological sub? Course I am. I think if we could manage to get those guys here, the crystals would choose to protect them just like they protected me. But it’s more than that. Mariposa are a commercial commodity, aren’t they? That’s why breaking the practice is going to take a long time. Every year that it takes to change the mindset of the people who support the practice, more Subplex children are going to be sold to Mariposa academies and Polilla schools. The only answer to that is money. Lots of money. Enough money to buy those poor bastards before anyone even gets a chance to screw with them. If a trained Mariposa is sold for 10m credits, you gotta assume they pay at least a tenth of that to buy them in the first place.

“I mean, I hope there are parents out there who’d refuse the money and just take the chance to send their kids to a place of safety. But I gotta face it that my dad isn’t the only bastard who would prefer the cold hard cash. And guess what Nova has access to? More money than we can even imagine with the willing help of the Crystals.”

“Assuming the Novians co-operate,” Castiel pointed out. “This is _their_ money you want to spend.”

“It’s nobody's money if they can’t access the ore and I might be wrong, but my gut tells me that ongoing mining operations here are going to depend on our cooperation. But I think they will agree anyway. The Faelar are going to cream themselves over the evidence the Crystals are sapient and, as for the rest of them, I think they’re good people. Bobby said they wanted to mine more ore specifically so they could offer homes to more Delts like Meg. There’s a lot wrong with the Alliance, Cas. The Mariposa are just the most obvious victims. Start scratching at one sore though, and I think a lot of nasty pus is going to come to the surface.”

“You want to break the entire Federation apart?” Cas enquired, as mildly as if Dean had suggested changing his breakfast cereal.

“Nah. I told you before, Cas, on the whole I think the Federation is a good thing. It enables the exchange of knowledge, advanced healthcare, and just by existing it avoids the need for most petty interplanetary wars. I don’t think the institution is intrinsically flawed. Just the management of it. I think the wrong parts of the Federation, such as the tradition of Mariposa, offend the sensibilities of most average citizens. They just don’t believe they can have the good without accepting the bad. Most people tolerate wrong-doing that doesn’t directly affect them, but they do so out of apathy rather than deliberate indifference. They feel their voice is too small to be heard, so rarely bother to speak out at all. But shine a bright light on the bad stuff, get enough voices shouting together, and most of the rest will choose to join the demand for change. Sure, in any society there are those who take any available opportunity to take advantage of weaker people. But I honestly believe that for every Hortlan in the Universe, there are a thousand Bobby Singers.”

Since Nova Town didn’t have a town hall - most meetings, such as they were, took place inside the comfort of a bar run by a woman named Ellen who was rumored to be Bobby’s main squeeze - it was necessary to clear out the Grain store to find a building large enough to contain every inhabitant of Nova, plus the crew of both the Bentaegen Warship and the Carpe Diem. Not that Dean had any idea why any of the latter parties had been invited. Even so, had the Molgaten not been gaseous and the Faelar happy to simply flutter in the air above their heads, it would have been impossible to fit everyone inside.

“Bottom line,” Bobby was saying, “if we vote for this, we’ll be opening ourselves up to direct attacks just by having money to burn, regardless of how we choose to spend it. Half a dozen tugs and a supply ship ain’t gonna cut it. Either for defense or for intergalactic travel. Can’t very well pick up our new guests by tug.”

Which was when Dean understood why the ship crews had been invited.

“We’d be interested,” the Bentaegen pilot said, after a hurried consultation with his companions. “We like the idea of steady legitimate employment again, plus we agree conflict is highly likely once you start mining in quantity. The chance to blow a few pirates out of the sky sounds like our kind of fun. And we’ve got some friends out there in a similar situation. We can put out the word you’re hiring a fleet of Novian Peacekeepers.”

“What about you guys?” Someone asked Piotr. “You still planning on returning to Earth?”

“Dunno,” the pilot said. “Depends on what the owner of the yacht wants us to do.”

“Um, you do know Hortlan’s dead?” Dean asked cautiously. 

“Well, duh, but I clearly remember Hortlan signing over ownership to his beloved fiancé before his tragic ‘accident’ with a rock, don’t you, Chris?”

“Oh yeah,” the navigator agreed with a smirk. “Definitely remember that. Wouldn’t be surprised if I stumbled across a digital record confirming that conversation at some point,” he added, with a wink towards the town’s newly appointed computer expert, Gabriel.

“Duly noted,” Gabriel agreed cheerfully.

“Yeah, so, as I was saying,” Piotr continued blithely, “if the new owner wants us to swan around the galaxy picking up passengers of the Lepidoptera variety, I can’t say we’d have an issue with the idea.”

“Which brings us to population expansion,” Bobby grumbled. “It’s one thing to be the Mayor of a one-horse town. Way things are going, we’re going to turn into a city faster than a blink. Add that shit to the fact Nova is going to have to start negotiating with other planets for substantial amounts of building materials and food and shit and that crap is gonna be well above my pay grade. I agreed to knock heads together, not be a goddamned governor. We need to hire someone with serious managerial chops for that kind of role. Someone capable of handling legal shit and high-level negotiations and financial investments and all that crap. Someone with a track record of that kind of thing.”

“Yeah, but giving some stranger that kind of power is opening ourselves up to exploitation,” Kevin said. “We need someone like Carolus. Shame he’s got a job and a family to return to, otherwise, he’d be perfect.”

Carolus looked stunned as the whole gathered assembly rumbled their approval of the idea and their regret he wouldn’t accept.

“Let me see… you’re offering me the role of the governor here but that would mean choosing Castiel over my wife and my other sons? Never returning to Tsaluna?”

“Fraid so,” Bobby snorted.

“Where do I sign?”

“How the fuck did everything work out so damned perfectly?” Dean sighed.

“This isn’t a happy ever after, Dean,” Cas pointed out dryly. “It’s just the end of the beginning. I’m pretty sure this is the point at which the _real_ story actually starts.”

Dean shrugged lightly. “So? It’s the story of _how_ it starts. One day, maybe far in the future, they’ll talk about this moment in schools. This precise moment will be written down in history as the day when a hotch-potch bunch of idealistic idiots got their heads out of their asses, joined together with the assistance of a world of mystical monolithic crystals and made a commitment to shake up the Federal Alliance and turn it into something to be proud of. Our own individual fates aren’t really part of the rest of the story. None of us are looking to be storybook heroes.”

“You don’t want people to write about us, as they wrote about Castor and Dey’hahn?” Cas queried lightly, tracing a gentle finger against Dean’s silky flesh until he shuddered in response.

“I definitely don’t want them writing porn about us,” Dean snorted.

“You sure?” Cas asked, pressing a second finger inside and beginning to scissor gently. “Because you did say this ‘precise moment’ and, under the circumstances, I think we’re about to get pretty pornographic.”

“You do?” Dean demanded. “I don’t remember agreeing specifically to any such thing, Professor.”

“Agreement was implied when I suggested we took advantage of the fact this ship was unmanned at the moment and you agreed to close your eyes and ride up to it in a tender with me.”

“Maybe I just wanted to take a look at _my_ yacht.”

“And that necessitated the removal of your clothes?”

Dean shrugged, only to buck his hips with a gasp as Castiel’s probing fingers found and stroked his sweet spot. “It...it’s warm on board,” he choked.

“Uh huh?” Cas agreed, “That must be why I removed my clothes too.”

“Must be…” Dean agreed, sighing as Castiel peppered gentle kisses against the side of his neck.

Then his chest.

Then his rib cage.

Whilst constantly teasing him with his fingers.

“Soooo,” Castiel said. “Why did you agree to come up to the ship, Dean?”

“Scientific experimentation,” Dean replied primly.

“Oh? Any specific subject matter?”

“Apparently sound can’t travel in space.”

“That’s correct.”

“And I remember some old crappy vid I once watched, that had this blurb, ‘In space, no one can hear you scream’.”

“And?” Cas queried gently, though his fingers were now moving with punishing force as they stabbed in and out of Dean’s hole.

Cheeks flushed, eyes bright, Dean smirked and widened his legs in invitation.

“Make me scream, Cas,” he said.

  
  


The End... of the beginning.

  
  



End file.
